Quiller Barracuda

Chapter 12: DIAMONDS

Seen from the ocean Miami is beautiful by night, a blaze of light floating from horizon to horizon on the water and reflected there. The night lends a semblance of purity to most cities; their light flowers from them as if from unsullied soil.

I saw the bright frieze of the skyline at intervals, when the swell dropped the boat into the long indigo troughs: Fidel and I were sitting in the scuppers on the afterdeck, our knees drawn up, Roget standing with his back to the opposite rail with the big gun trained on us. When I could see the water I noticed that flotsam was everywhere, the detritus of smashed pontoons and jetties and small boats thrown up by the hurricane and strewn across the sea. Perhaps there were bodies there; I looked for none.

She was a single-deck motor yacht with twin diesels and a cluster of antennae on the cabin roof; I estimated our speed at fifteen knots, and we were a mile from the shore, heading out.

'We don't tolerate thieves!'

Fidel didn't voice any reaction to the kick; his limbs jerked and were still again. It displeased Nicko. I think he'd wanted a scream.

'You know Mr Toufexis. He doesn't tolerate thieving!'

A hiss of breath as the kick raked across his legs, leaving him spilled on the deck with his groin exposed, and the fat man went for that and got his scream.

'There's got to be trust, you understand me? Trust. With this kind of money around and this kind of merchandise, we've got to trust everyone else, and they've got to trust us. You understand what I'm saying?'

Fidel the Cuban was prone now and vomiting, couldn't answer, wouldn't have answered anyway. I'd seen the two men in the control cabin look around when Fidel had screamed. They didn't like Nicko: I'd noticed it before. I would have said they were more like professional traders than men of the criminal type as such; they weren't here to take their revenge on society but simply to make money, a great deal of money. They were business men, not thieves; hence Nicko's nice distinction. This didn't mean they weren't dangerous.

'Get up!' Standing over the Cuban, hands on his hips, his face red with rage, a show of monstrous petulance. 'Clean that up!'

The swell lowered us smoothly into a trough and there was the city again, looking beautiful. The throb of the diesels was low and sensual, the warm air rich with the scent of seaweed.

'You're too fat, Nicko,' I said.

He looked down at me.

'What did you say?'

'You're too fat.'

He was a short man, didn't carry his weight with majesty like Sidney Greenstreet or Orson Welles. Nicko was just a dumpling of a man, spoiled, a cakeseeker. I thought he might be sensitive about it and he was. It was as quick as he could manage but it was done in rage, which lowered the muscle tone, and I had a lot of time to monitor the kick as it came, and when it came I caught it, nothing more than that, caught it and held the ankle until he began losing his balance, because I didn't want him to fall – the moment had come and gone.

It had been an essay, that was all. Nicko was standing over me and blocking Roget completely, and it might have been possible to use the fat man for my purposes, which were of course to avoid death. But I would need to make physical contact with him before I could do anything to him, and I couldn't have got to my feet and started work because there wouldn't have been enough time – he would have come at me right away. So I'd had to get him to make the first contact, and things had come very close because I could have done a lot more than just hold his ankle -1 could have straightened up and pitched him back against the man with the gun and Roget would probably, would very probably have loosed off at least one shot in his surprise.

I wouldn't of course have stopped there: that would have been the beginning, with two people off balance and wide open and the ship's rail immediately behind them. It could have been quite elegant in a way, though somewhat too easy to claim any credit. I didn't attempt it because there were some unpredictable factors. Nicko and the black would have had their throats well exposed and would have been dead before they went over the rail; but I couldn't have told where that first impulsive shot would have gone: it could have gone straight through Nicko and into me. There had also been no predicting how fast the two men in the control cabin would have reacted and got to their guns. In the end, within those few milliseconds when I was holding the fat man's ankle, I let the subconscious make the decision for me because it could scan the whole range of data very much faster than the forebrain and it would be much more accurate.

I am just telling you this, my good friend, to let you know that I was not just sitting there on my bloody rump awaiting the grim bloody reaper; I was not intending to offer this fat little tick the high privilege of despatching me with a shot from his bloody little gun without first culling whatever grace and favour the gods might have for me and turning it to my cunning advantage, without in simpler terms trying everything.

But there is nothing to try, my good friend. You know that. You've heard of whistling in the dark.

'You want to be funny?' In almost a scream, a scream of rage, getting his balance again and bringing his right leg back and starting another kick, not having learned, and this time I parried the foot and turned and straightened up and let his momentum carry him against the rail and when he span round I slapped him with the back of my hand across the eyes, across, more significantly, the pineal gland. Then I waited while he got his orientation back, and it took a bit of time: he lurched about with a hand to his forehead and his other hand reaching out to grab the rail and then my arm, and when he grabbed my arm I chopped gently across his wrist to make him pay attention, to make him understand that I didn't like to be touched with those little pink hermit-crab fingers.

'Freeze!'

Roget, of course, getting excited, waving the gun;

'Oh fuck off,' I said and went on watching Nicko, waiting for him to get himself in order again; but the pain in his wrist was occupying him so I took the opportunity of talking a little.

'Look, Nicko, there are things we've got to discuss and they could be to your immediate advantage, but you're putting me in the wrong mood with all this fidgeting. Are you listening to me, Nicko? I hope you are, because otherwise you could make a very grave mistake in taking on the whole of the British Government.'

He got his eyes focused at last but their expression showed only confusion. I didn't expect him to fall for the British Government thing but I could be wrong and he might be thinking about it. There were also the other problems he'd suddenly been given to work out – he'd tried to get through with a couple of kicks but it hadn't got him anywhere and he was bright enough to know that if I'd decided to use more force I could have snapped his wrist and knocked him out cold with a backfist instead of stunning the pineal with a slap. People with guns aren't ready for any kind of resistance and it phases them, but I could be making a mistake with this man and he could get rid of his angst by going for his gun and putting a bullet right through my own pineal gland, touche.

'The British Government? The fuck are you talking about?'

An intellectual question: he'd got his emotions under enough control to let him think straight and I liked that because it made him more predictable.

They're the -'

'Wait a minute.'

He was watching something across the water, something behind me, presumably a boat. We'd passed half a dozen lying at anchor as we'd left the shore, no more than their riding lights burning, the moonlight throwing the shadows of their masts across the surface. There had also been another vessel moving under power with lights flooding the control deck.

I didn't look behind me: he might be trying that one.

'Roget,' he said, 'get lower with that thing.'

The afterdeck wasn't lit but the black made a sharp silhouette against the moonlit sea and the Suzuki had a substantial profile.

'Coastguard?' I asked Nicko.

That would be nice.

He didn't answer, just went on watching the boat. I could hear its engine now. One of the men in the control cabin looked round, hearing it too. The waters off this coast were heavily patrolled by the US Coastguard on the watch for drug runners, Cubans and Haitians, and they could stop any vessel they weren't happy about and ask questions.

They were all watching the ship behind me, Nicko and the men in the cabin, and when I looked at Roget I saw that his head was turned away from me and the nerves went into the full-alert phase in that instant and the adrenaline hit the bloodstream as I worked out the distance and the two strikes that were called for, one to deal with the Suzuki and the other to the man's throat – and then it was over and his head was turning back to watch me and I found that my breath was still blocked to power the necessary movement and my right foot was dug against the deck to push me past the inertia and get me across the deck.

Relax.

But Jesus Christ that was Relax, it's over now. Deepen, calm the breathing, let the muscles go loose again. There might be another chance and more time to take it. The three other men had guns but there'd be nothing I could do on board this boat while that Suzuki was here: it could put out four shots a second and blow me overboard if that man starting firing.

'Nicko.'

The man in the cabin, the one who was watching the boat out there.

'What?' He didn't turn, went on watching the boat.

'You'll have to get it over with before we get there.'

Nicko didn't answer. Presumable meaning: you'll have to shoot those two before we make the rendezvous with the supplier.

Nicko still silent. Fidel the Cuban had finished sluicing the deck; he was on his haunches again, his face still pale, his head back and his eyes closed. I would have said he was wishing it were over, wishing for an end to pain.

'Nicko.' The man in the cabin again.

'What?' He turned round now. 'It's okay, they're just a -'

'Nicko, we want you to do what you have to do before we get there. We don't want bodies around, you listening, Nicko?' The man at the helm said something, and the first man nodded. 'And you'll have to do it quietly, Nicko. No guns. There's too much traffic out here.'

'That wasn't Coastguard, it was -'

'You don't listen, Nicko, I said there's too much traffic out here. You do like we say or we don't come out with you the next time, are you listening to me, Nicko?'

Patience in his tone, spelling it out, no four-letter words thrown in for effect, just the message, listen to me, Nicko. Patience and a certain authority. He was a dealer and he was out here on business and he didn't want anything to get in the way. He and his partner, then, the man at the helm, the dealers; Nicko the heavy, the hit man, bringing the half million or the million on board, seeing to it himself, for the others a necessary evil.

'You don't know these people,' he said, his stomach jerking as he pushed the words out. 'I know them. You didn't have me, you wouldn't be out here to meet them, the fuck are you talking about, Vicente?'

I didn't know if they would have started arguing if it weren't for the fact that murder was to be done. Perhaps it worried them, even though they were used to it. I could feel the same kind of tension that develops in a prison when everyone knows that not far away there's a man preparing a rope or a syringe or the straps on the chair and that the clock is moving towards morning.

'No noise, Nicko. And do it soon, or you'll get us in trouble out here and Mr Toufexis wouldn't like it – have you thought of that? Think of it, Nicko.'

The man in the cabin, Vicente, turned his back. He and the man at the helm carried guns bolstered on the left side, and Nicko was wearing his the same way. There was no one else on board except for Roget with the Suzuki and Fidel the Cuban and of course Nicko. The two men who'd brought the boat to the jetty had stayed ashore. The main problem in terms of timing was Roget, the young black: his finger was inside the guard the whole time and he was seven, eight feet distant from me.

So I began work with that as the fulcrum.

'They're the people who employ me, Nicko.'

'What?' Turned to look at me, the small eyes squeezed almost shut, as if a wind had got up, a cold wind. The man up there, Vicente, had started to worry him.

"The British Government,' I said. 'I'm in Miami on a special assignment.'

'Fuck does that mean?'

'It means I've been assigned by the Thatcher administration to represent the United Kingdom's interest in the presidential election, under the aegis of Senator Mathieson Judd.'

He watched me. 'You're full of shit, you know that?'

'The thing is, Nicko, you're getting into something very big, and you're not aware of that. I think it's only my duty to tell you. Everyone can make a mistake, but what worries me is that this one is going to blow you right out of the water.'

In a moment, 'Mistake?'

'That's right. For instance, who gave you the instructions to kill me?'

'Mr Toufexis. Who else?' More quickly than I'd expected, perhaps to shift the blame. The blame, not the guilt; there wouldn't be any guilt, just the memory of sadistic pleasure.

'Then you'll have to tell Mr Toufexis he's making the mistake.'

The pink fleshy mouth became stretched slightly and there was a soft wheeze, a kind of laughter. 'Mr Toufexis doesn't make mistakes. Give me your wallet.'

I thought he'd never ask. But I'm going to take a risk and trust you because I'm gullible enough to feel reassured by the Queen of England's crest on the card you gave me. Erica Cambridge. Perhaps it would work with this man too.

Gave him the wallet, and as he took it I moved another two inches towards Roget, the man with the big Suzuki. I had moved more than a foot closer to him in the last three minutes.

Cash, credit cards, driving licence, taking his time.

'Foreign Office. What's that?'

'You call it the State Department.'

'Richard Ainsely Keyes. Right, that's the name. So there's no mistake.'

'Not on your part, no. But I think you should telephone Mr Toufexis and tell him about my assignment for the Thatcher administration. I'm sure he's no wish to get involved in Senator Judd's election campaign. The Senator wouldn't be pleased.'

Another two inches to the left, simply as an exercise in case there was something eventually to be done.

A green light was moving across the sea, at the starboard beam of a vessel. Nicko had seen it and stood watching it for a moment, then turned and went into the control cabin. I judged we were now three miles out, three at the least. Fidel the Cuban had said the rendezvous was to be made seven miles out, and the arithmetic was simple enough: at fifteen knots cruising speed we would be there in approximately fifteen minutes.

No noise, Nicko. Do it soon. Do it before we get there.

That was logical enough: there'd be other people at the rendezvous and I might get a chance to kick and scream, so forth, create confusion.

'Senator Judd?' Nicko looked up from the wallet.

'The candidate for the presidency.'

'Fuck are you talking about?' He turned and went into the cabin and I watched him go to the radio unit.

Sound of a vessel, the one moving past us to starboard, heading for port. Roget heard it too and wanted to turn round and look at it, but he was only shifting his eyes, thinking about it, and I didn't get ready to do anything. I wasn't close enough to him yet, and I'd have to wait until Nicko came back before I could shift a bit more to the left again. The best thing would be to get to the Suzuki and swing it down but give him time to fire a few shots. It would make a lot of noise and if the Coastguard had a patrol out here they'd come and ask questions.

No noise, Nicko.

Telephone to his head. I could only hear a word or two as his voice rose and lowered against the throb of the diesels, but I think he was asking to speak to a man called Joshua. Or Foster. Or of course Proctor because the vowels carried more clearly than the consonants. Perhaps Proctor.

The immediate objective for Barracuda.

He was holding my card up, turning it aslant to catch the light. I think I heard Foreign Office, but that could have been because I was listening for it. Then there was Mr Toufexis, and then Proctor again and then Thatcher, be it given that I was only getting snatches.

It was really very frustrating because the executive for the mission was only a telephone number away from the objective and he was three miles out to sea with a man on one side of him with his testicles out cold and a man on the other side waiting to blow his head across the bay if he did anything wrong and a man in the cabin there with orders for his immediate execution.

All I want, Nicko, is that telephone number, you little fat bastard, the one you've just called, and if I ever get you alone you're going to tell me what it is.

The deck rose and fell away to the slow undulations of the swell; the Miami skyline was lifted suddenly from the dark and strewn across the horizon in a cascade of diamonds, then was lost again, blotted out by the profile of the cabin. Assignment … government… janitor – no, Senator… Senator Judd, more clearly now as the man at the helm throttled the diesels back, slowing us.

Nicko cradled the telephone and there was no more to listen to, as I asked the black, 'Are we nearly there?' I wanted to know how he was feeling, how confident or how nervous.

'Keep your fuckin' mouth shut, you know what I mean?'

No reliable data. Nicko was coming back and Roget turned his head a little to look at him so I shifted my feet again, three inches this time because it wouldn't be much longer now.

'You're full of shit.'

Nicko, standing in front of me, the small eyes glinting.

'Did you talk to Proctor himself?'

Got a reaction: we hadn't mentioned his name before.

'There isn't any mistake. There isn't any assignment. You wasted my time, and I don't like that.'

But I'd got the answer. Only Proctor knew enough about me to know I wasn't on an assignment for the Thatcher government in connection with Senator Judd. This man had just been speaking to the objective. I was that close.

'I suggested you telephone Mr Toufexis,' I said, 'not Proctor.'

'What's the difference?'

Perhaps I could have gone on from there, kept him talking if there'd been time, tried a few oblique questions about Monique, Kim Harvester, Erica Cambridge, 1330 Riverside Way, the yacht Contessa, to see if I could get any more information to work on, to give to Ferris, but there wasn't a chance because the man in the cabin, Vicente, was turning round.

'Hey, Nicko. You have to do it now.'