A Five Year Plan

Chapter Eighteen

Dave was reading a book when he heard a footfall on the cockpit deck.

It was the ship’s electrical officer, Jock. No longer wearing white, he was wrapped in a thick woollen navy blue sweater and navy blue pants.

‘Come tae look at your boat. Check your ropes are all holding up.’

‘And are they?’

‘For now. But if the storm catches up to us, we could all have some problems. Right now we’re just ahead of it. Making good time. We’re going like a racing dog’s cock.’

‘But we’re still on course?’

‘Oh aye. On course right enough. But if this keeps up we’ll be arriving well ahead of schedule.’

Dave frowned. Being early for the rendezvous might be every bit as disastrous for the heist as being late.

‘How much ahead?’

‘Can’t say for sure. Soon as the weather improves we’ll get a better idea. By the way, how’s your handset?’

Dave said nothing, distracted by the latest information. It looked like they were going to spend more time aboard the getaway boat than he had figured. From now on he would need to keep a close eye on their position with the aid of the boat’s GPS receiver. About the same size as a cellular telephone, the GPS could accurately tell you where you were, in what direction you were heading, and how fast you were going: every time you turned on the receiver it worked out its location by tracking the signals broadcast by satellites in the GPS constellation until it had enough information to determine its own relative position.

Jock repeated his question.

‘Oh, still working OK, thanks. You want a beer?’

‘Why not? Might as well be wet inside as well as out.’

Dave glanced out of the window. Rain lashed the roof of the Juarista and even behind the walls of the Duke, the boat’s deck felt more like a surfboard. He handed Jock a Corona. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘It’s like Moby Dick out there.’

‘A wee bit tricky walking along the ship’s walls,’ Jock admitted. ‘But not half as bad as we thought. The skipper was right. It should blow itself out soon enough.’

Jock drained half the beer from the bottle. Hearing a loud retching noise from the bowels of Dave’s boat, he glanced at the stairwell. He grinned slightly and said, ‘Someone’s Uncle Dick, are they?’

Dave frowned momentarily as his ears and understanding tried to penetrate the Scotsman’s speech. Finally it dawned on him.

‘Yeah. It’s Al. He’s not a good sailor.’ He seemed unconcerned, although he was growing worried by the thought that he might end up tackling the score on his own. The only possible benefit of the bad weather was that the crews of the Russkie boats might be feeling as sick as Al.

‘But you’re all right?’ said Jock.

‘I’m fine.’ Dave said. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have something I could give him, would you? I’ve tried Kwells and other shit like that, but they don’t seem to help.’

Jock finished his beer and pulled a face.

‘That stuffs for kids,’ he said. ‘What other shit have you tried?’

‘Antihistamine. Didn’t work either. Just made him sleep for a bit.’

‘When was his last dose of that?’

‘Hours ago.’

‘Well, if it’s me, I take hyoscine. Blocks the para-sympathetic autonomic nervous system. Stuffs commonly used as a preanesthetic to prevent reflex vagal stimulation of the heart.’

‘There’s nothing sympathetic about Al’s nervous system,’ said Dave. ‘I’m not even sure he’s got a heart.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘What are you, some kind of doctor as well?’

‘On this ship, aye. My father was a veterinary surgeon. I learned a lot from him.’ He shrugged. ‘Bastards on this ship are all animals anyway, so it makes no bloody difference.’ He took one of the cigarettes Dave had offered him, and lit it quickly. ‘Does your pal suffer from glaucoma, at all?’

Dave had no idea, but he shook his head anyway, sensing that Jock was about to prescribe something useful. The hyoscine perhaps.

‘Aye, well I’ve got some Scopoderm. It’s good stuff. Not available over the counter.’ He pinched the cigarette from the corner of his mouth and inhaled through clenched teeth. ‘Expensive, though. If you know what I mean.’

Dave thought he did and grinned back at him. ‘I think so.’

Jock looked apologetic. ‘You’re the one with the flash boat, not me. I’m just trying to make ends meet.’

‘How much?’

‘Fifty bucks. Enough to see you through the bad weather.’

‘Done.’

Jock took a small packet from his pocket.

‘You had it with you?’

‘Quite a few people are feeling like shit today,’ laughed Jock. ‘Business is good.’

‘That’s a nice little racket,’ said Dave, handing over the five Hamiltons.

‘You make it any way you can.’

‘Sure do,’ agreed Dave.

‘These are tablets and plasters,’ Jock explained, giving Dave the packet. ‘Give him one tablet now and stick a plaster to his arm. He’ll have difficulty in passing water. Maybe blur his vision a bit. And it’ll stop him sweating altogether.’

‘I can’t wait,’ said Dave. ‘How soon does this shit kick in?’

‘Right away. An hour should see him on his feet again. Then one of the plasters and one of the pills every six hours. Just don’t mix the stuff with any alcohol.’

‘Right.’

‘Thanks for the beer.’

‘Pleasure doing business with you, Doc’

Jock walked precipitously toward the stern.

‘Oh yeah. I meant to tell you. That sub. I reckon it’s gone. No one’s been broadcasting in a while and there’s nothing on the echo-sounder. Must have got bored, and pissed off.’

‘Must have done,’ agreed Dave.

‘It’s that kind of voyage,’ said Jock. ‘I can’t think why I ever imagined going to sea would be more interesting than becoming a vet. Nothing ever bloody well happens on this boat.’

‘No, I guess not.’

Al was lying on the floor, one arm wrapped around the toilet bowl as if it was his best friend. Dave knelt down, wrapped one of Al’s anaconda-sized arms around his own neck, and dragged him into the stateroom.

‘One thing I like about you, Al. You know your proper station in life. It’s been a pleasure sailing with you, you know? A guy out of the can, like me? It’s been a great comfort to have been around someone lower than myself.’

‘Fuck you,’ groaned Al.

Dave dropped him onto the bed and finding a towel he began to dry Al’s arms carefully.

‘The doc was just by to give you something,’ said Dave. ‘To be completely honest with you, he’s really a vet. But I knew you wouldn’t hold that against him, you being a fuckin’ gorilla n’all.’

Dave unwrapped the supply of Scopoderm and taped a plaster to the inside of each chunky forearm.

‘Normally the guy only treats domestic animals but I persuaded him to make an exception in your case. I told him to pretend you were a domestic ass and y’know something? He didn’t seem to have any problem with that.’

Dave placed one of Jock’s tablets on Al’s lolling, beige sock of a tongue, and then closed his jaw before reaching for the glass of water on the bedside table. The glass was in his hand and then almost on the floor as he realized with disgust that the water covered a set of dental plates.

‘Jesus, what the fuck is this?’ Dave laughed and then lifted Al’s slack lip on the edge of his finger. Grinning, his own teeth shining perfectly, Dave peered into Al’s pukey mouth. He said, ‘Man, there’s not one tooth in the whole fucking bowling ball.’ Dave kept on looking, fascinated and feeling like the bitch in King Lear come to gloat over some old guy’s empty eye sockets. Until Al’s big hairy paw swept Dave’s hand away.

‘Fuck you.’

‘OK, you gotta sit up now and swallow this bitter little pill, Al. Make you feel better. It’s a seasickness pill, so be a good fellow and just swallow the goddamn thing. Stuff cost me fifty bucks.’

Al sat up, swallowed the pill and, taking the glass out of Dave’s hand, drained it of the water covering his dentures.

‘You bastard,’ he whispered and collapsed back onto the bed.

‘Yeah, I know. All my patients say the same thing. My manner’s more dockside than bedside.’ Dave wiped Al’s forehead with the towel. ‘Takes a little while for the Scopoderm to kick in. The dope’s attached to your arms as well, just in case your stomach’s paying less attention than your brain. Just one note of precaution. No booze while you’re tripping on this stuff. That means no booze until we’re off this ship, right? You and I have got a job to do.’ Dave glanced at his watch. ‘In less than twelve hours. You want some character motivation? Then think about that for a while. This time tomorrow you and I are going to be multi-millionaires.’

‘So,’ said Sam Brockman. ‘We’re on our own now. Excepting when there’s a NATO exercise, the Navy generally stays this side of the Atlantic. It makes things less complicated for the ASW people.’

‘ASW?’

‘Anti-submarine warfare,’ he told Kate. ‘French’ll pick us up in a few hours, just west of the Azores.’ He sighed. ‘Shit.’

‘What?’

‘Just that I almost wish something would happen. Seems kind of a shame to hand the collar over to Interpol.’

Kate agreed without much enthusiasm. For her there was more than enough happening already. More than she had bargained for, anyway. Since breakfast she had stayed on the Carrera, grateful that the bad weather gave her the excuse not to go up on deck and see Dave. Perhaps it was as well the sub had gone. It meant that there was no temptation to get a message relayed back to FBI HQ and check on Dave’s criminal record. Assuming Dulanotov was his real name.

A very green-looking Kent Bowen came up to the galley and stood breathing heavily over the sink for a moment before fetching a glass and taking some water from the faucet.

‘How are you feeling, Kent?’ Sam asked the ASAC.

‘Like dog shit.’

Kate gave Bowen a look as if to say dog shit was what he was. She hadn’t yet worked out a way of paying him back for implying to Dave that he was fucking her. But she was working on it.

‘The Dramamine not effective?’ said Sam.

‘That’s the top of the news,’ said Bowen. ‘I take any more of that stuff and I’ll fall asleep. I’m nearly out on my feet as it is.’

‘You know, nothing much is happening right now,’ said Kate. ‘Turkey in the straw has signed off. There doesn’t seem much point in staying awake if you’re feeling lousy. Why not go to bed?’

Bowen smiled weakly. ‘Why not go to bed? Is that your personal motto or something?’

Kate bit her lip. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she said evenly.

‘I think you know what I’m talking about, Agent Furey.’

‘God, you sound just like my mother.’

‘I doubt that. I doubt that very much. Clearly your mother can never have offered you anything in the way of moral guidance.’

Kate felt her cheeks color. Then she laughed scornfully. ‘Listen to Bob Guccione. What would you know about moral guidance?’

Persisting, Bowen said, ‘If she had—’

‘I’m assuming it’s the Dramamine that’s making you sound like an asshole, Kent.’

‘If she had, you’d have returned to this boat last night.’

‘Did you come up here especially to insult me?’

‘You don’t deny it then?’

‘Deny what?’

‘That you slept with that guy?’

‘Actually we didn’t really sleep at all. We were too busy fucking.’

‘I was right, then.’

‘But what I did or did not do last night is really none of your goddamn business.’

‘If it affects the integrity of this operation, it is.’

‘And you’d know all about that, watching porno all evening.’

Bowen leaned forward and retched into the sink.

‘You make a lot more sense with your head in a toilet bowl,’ she sneered.

Bowen straightened and wiped his mouth with a paper towel. ‘It was not all evening.’

‘It was a couple of hours, Kate,’ said Sam. ‘Maybe three.’

‘So don’t lecture me on integrity,’ said Kate.

Sam said, ‘Never seen that kind of thing before. Probably won’t ever see it again. Last night, I reckon I saw everything it was possible to see. There was one particular female—’ He glanced awkwardly at Kate. ‘Well, I’ll just say this. That now I know what it really means to have your head screwed on.’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, I don’t see that any of us have affected the integrity of this operation. Nothing happened last night that’s anyone’s business but his or her own. Now why don’t we just leave it at that, huh, Kent?’

‘That kind of adolescent behavior may be OK in the Coast Guard,’ hiccuped Bowen. ‘But Agent Furey’s illicit sexual activities are not in the best traditions of the FBI.’

‘Who do you think you are?’ demanded Kate. ‘J. Edgar Hoover? Illicit sexual activities, my ass.’

Bowen grinned through a wave of nausea that drained the last shade of color from his face. He said, ‘Well, I know who I am. Yeah. That’s right. I know who I am.’

‘The secret files of Kent Bowen.’

‘But can you say the same about your sexual partner? Answer me that, if you can. Exactly what do you know about Mister David Dulanotov?’

‘This is bullshit,’ said Kate. But the truth was that she had spent the whole morning asking herself the same question.

Bowen took a deep breath and said, ‘I am a pillar of strength in a city of weak men and women. And I will maintain the law. But Mister David Dulanotov is something else. He is not a righteous man. The rancorous eye and the finger of scorn are pointed against him.’ He exhaled unsteadily.

‘Pillar of shit more like. What are you talking about?’

‘I’ll tell you. I’ve done a little checking on Mister David Dulanotov. And it turns out that the boat he owns is registered in Grand Cayman.’

‘There’s no law against that.’

‘The previous owner was a guy by the name of Lou Malta, formerly an associate of Tony Nudelli. Even you must have heard of Tony Nudelli.’

Kate stayed silent.

‘Naked Tony Nudelli. I say formerly an associate, because Lou Malta is listed with the Miami Police Department as a missing person. No one has seen him in months.’

Kate shrugged and said, ‘I don’t see what that proves.’

‘Nothing. Except maybe that this Lou Malta guy has been murdered.’

‘All we ask of someone when they sell us something is that they possess a proper title to the goods. Not that they are a proper person.’

‘S’right, Kent,’ agreed Sam Brockman. ‘Guy who sold me my first car was one of the biggest crooks in Florida.’

‘Keep out of this,’ said Bowen.

‘Be careful, Sam,’ said Kate. ‘Or the crazy son of a bitch’ll open a file on you too.’

Bowen said, ‘I haven’t been able to find out about the other guy. The knuckles he has for company. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was some kind of mobster too.’

‘You sound like you’ve already established a prima facie case against David,’ said Kate. ‘What I’ve heard so far is about as circumstantial as the time on your cheap watch. Boy, when you throw up it’s not just last night’s dinner, is it? It’s a lot of other bile and rat shit as well. In case you’ve forgotten, Kent, it’s dogs that are interested in puke, not the DA. He’d laugh you out of his office with what you’ve told me so far.’

‘I never said I had anything other than—’ Bowen stopped, gulped biliously before covering his mouth and then waiting for another wave of nausea to subside. After a moment or two, he added, ‘Other than a strong suspicion, that he was not, a proper person for an agent to become, associated with.’ Then he belched.

‘Most intelligent sound you’ve made all morning, Kent,’ said Kate, standing up. ‘I’m going outside. The air in here is getting kind of sour.’

‘Agent Furey? I haven’t finished yet,’ said Bowen, and threw up into the sink.

‘It sure doesn’t look like it,’ said Kate, squeezing out from behind the table.

Almost as soon as Bowen had straightened again, a large fly landed on his puke, buzzing loudly.

‘Well, what do you know, Kent?’ said Kate, on her way out of the galley door. ‘Looks like one of your friends just dropped by.’

Kate spent the rest of the afternoon alone in her stateroom, avoiding everyone, Dave included. She heard him come aboard just after six, but when Sam came down to tell her, she told him to say she was sick and that she’d catch him tomorrow.

She was hardly to know that the next time she saw Dave he’d have a gun in his hand.

By dinnertime, with the squall still blowing hard and the sea as rough as ever, Dave returned to Al’s cabin with an omelette he had cooked for him, a piece of lemon pie, and a cup of strong black coffee.

‘Your in-flight meal,’ he said, coming in the door. ‘How are you feeling?’

Al sat up on the bed and yawned cheesily. He returned the dental plates to his mouth and said, ‘Better. Thanks. That stuff really works.’

‘I think you’d better eat something.’ Dave laid the tray on the bed. ‘It’s you who needs to be ready to rumble, not your stomach. With all that we’ve got to do, you’re going to need some energy.’

Al nodded, then wolfed down the omelette hungrily.

‘How about a beer?’ he asked.

‘Uh-uh,’ said Dave. ‘See those two Bandaids on your arms? Health warnings. They say the Surgeon-General has determined you remain dry until we’re aboard the Ercolano. Because of the medication. After that it’s champagne for the rest of your life.’

‘I don’t like champagne,’ said Al, attacking the pie. ‘It gives me gas.’

‘That’s the whole idea.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Sure. It’s the gas that lets you get loaded quickly.’

Al looked as if he hadn’t ever considered this possibility and spooned the rest of the pie into his mouth. Dave wondered if Al had ever heard of indigestion.

‘Thanks for the meal. ‘Predate it.’

‘No problem.’

‘My stomach was as empty as a fuckin’ campaign promise.’ Al burped happily and then drained his coffee cup. ‘Fuckin’ weather, huh? Reckon it’s going to slow us up any?’

Dave said, ‘If it keeps up like this, it’s certainly not going to make things any easier.’

‘How come you don’t ever get seasick?’

‘Mind over matter, I guess. I don’t mind. And it don’t matter.’ Dave lit a cigarette and grinned. ‘Besides, I figure thirty, forty million bucks’ll cure just about anything that ails me. Shit, man, I may never get sick again.’

Al grinned back. There were times when he quite liked the younger man. Times like this one. He promised himself that when the time came to kill Dave he’d make it quick. A bullet in the back of the head. The guy wouldn’t know a thing. It seemed the least that he could do.