by Nick Carter
Lyda leaned to kiss me lightly. “There will be,” she promised, “no monkey business. I trust you and you trust me.”
She slapped me lightly and stepped back. She did a bump and a grind and rolled her belly at me and then ran for the bathroom. Laughing. She closed the door and a moment later I heard the shower start.
I went through the deckhouse and took a careful peek at the marina. I didn’t want anyone spotting the web belt and the holster. Tom Mitchell was at the far end of docking, leaning against a piling and drooping, a cigarette burning in his mouth. He looked beat.
I yelled at him, “Hey, Tom!”
He snapped erect and waved a hand at me. The morning was soft, nacreous, with layers of dank gray mist floating over the Hudson.
I tapped the holster. “I’ve got it now, Tom. Go home and get some sleep. And thanks. I won’t need you today—I’m casting off in a few minutes.”
He came down the dock to where the floating duck-boarding led out to the cruiser. He looked puffy and fat and old. He stopped and flipped his butt into the water. “You’re taking off, huh?”
“Yeah. Orders. Thanks again, Tom, and take care of yourself. Be sure you cash that voucher.”
He scratched his bald head and gave me a tired grin. “I’ll cash it. Christ, Nick, I wish I was going with you.”
I grinned at him. “No can do, Tom. Anyway you’re too old. You said it yourself. So long, Tom. Maybe I’ll see you again and we’ll tie one on—like we used to.”
“Anytime,” he said. “Anytime, Nick. Goodbye, fella.”
He raised a hand and then turned and walked back up the docking. He didn’t look back. I ducked down into the cockpit and looked the engine over. A minute later I heard a car start and drive away. So long, Tom.
I checked her out pretty good, and when I got back to the stateroom Lyda had breakfast ready. Bacon and eggs and toast and more coffee. She also had a surprise for me: she was wearing green fatigues and a little Castro cap and on the cap, and on each shoulder, she wore a single silver star.
I stared at her. “So now you’re a brigadier, eh? You are also some kind of nut, you know. If Papa Doc’s boys catch you wearing that insignia you won’t even get a trial. They’ll shoot you out of hand.”
She made a face at me. “I know. They will shoot me anyway, stars or no. Anyway, I won’t wear them when we go ashore.”
I nodded at her. “That is for damn sure, honey. Remember it. But if you want to play general on the way down I don’t care. Only don’t get uppity. Remember you’re still crew—and there is going to be plenty of work.”
As we ate I told her that we would cast off as soon as breakfast was over. She looked doubtful.
“In day time? Wouldn’t it be better to wait until after dark?”
I shook my head. “The risk is minimal. The bogyman haven’t spotted the Sea Witch or we wouldn’t be here now. You certainly wouldn’t be.”
She gave me a swift glance. “I know. I would be dead.”
“Yes. So I think it’s safe to take her down river. We’ll hug the Jersey shore and once we get into the harbor traffic nobody will bother us.”
There was one slight risk, which I didn’t mention. If the Tonton Macoute had spotted the cruiser, and had laid off for some reason of their own, and saw us heading out, they would have a pretty good idea where we were going. That might mean a reception committee in Haiti. I had to risk that.
I went into the deckhouse and took off the web belt and holster and stashed them in a locker. I didn’t want a police launch getting interested in me. I opened the radio cabinet in one corner of the deckhouse and checked out the equipment. It was pretty good—a ship to shore phone and a CW transceiver. Lyda came into the deckhouse to stand beside me as I inspected the stuff.
There was a bug and a manual key jacked into the transceiver. I pointed to the keys. “Can you handle a key? You know International Morse?”
She shook her head. “I don’t. We’ve got—had—a radio man. Juan was going to—what does it matter now?”
“Probably doesn’t,” I admitted. “Still you never know. And I can’t do everything.”
I flicked a toggle on the console and a green light came on. I am nothing with a bug, but a manual key I can handle pretty well, and now I tapped the key a couple of times and a thin squealing came out of the loud speaker. I put on the ear phones and tapped myself a CQ and adjusted the vernier and volume until the code was coming in loud and clear and five by five. I laid off the key and twisted the dial and listened to a couple of tugs working each other. Then I got an idea and just for the hell of it I sent a CQ to the AXE station on a remote island off the South Carolina coast. I really didn’t expect to get through, because the traffic was thick and I was Bending from a poor locale, at sea level and bouncing signals off the Palisades.
But in a minute the signal came in, booming and shrill: R—go ahead, N3—R—go ahead—K—
I had no message but somehow I felt better when I heard them come in. A tenuous link to my people, but a link just the same.
I pounded the key. K—testing—K—testing—AR—
The answer came ghosting back. K—AR— Silence.
I flipped the toggle to off and gave the crew some orders and went to start the engines. The crew did pretty well with the lines, and I backed Sea Witch out into a making tide and pointed her downstream on a diagonal slant to get some westing and hug the far shore. The sun came over the horizon and turned the flat lead color of the river into gold and silver. The far reaches were empty, a lot of vacant water, but a couple of tugs were crawling upstream and to the north a fat white tanker was lying at the Con Ed dock.
I was conning her from the cockpit today, not wanting to be any more conspicuous than necessary. The tan general came to stand beside me and kissed my ear, and I told her to go away.
“Getting this scow through harbor traffic is not going to be fun and games,” I told her. “Go find something to do.” I wondered how soon she would miss the money and what her reaction would be.
“Wash the dishes,” I said. “You’re crew and I like a tidy] galley. And it might be a good idea if you stay under cover1 until we’re at sea. No use taking chances.”
That was good, coming from me. Taking chances? This whole crazy mission was a chance—and not much of chance, at that. I was beginning to have a very nasty feeling about this deal.
“See if you can get a marine forecast,” I told her. “And let me know.”
Not that it made any difference. I had to go to sea anyway, because anything less than a hurricane would not impress Hawk. I had my orders.
Lyda gave me a smart salute and a mocking smile. “Aye, aye, sir. It shall be done.”
She was her former lovely self again by now. The morning megrims were over, and she was full of bounce and hope and excitement. I would have given a lot to be able to peer into her brain just then. It would have been a help, for we had a long bull session coming up and I was wondering how many lies she was going to tell me and how I could spot and discount them. And how many lies I would have to tell her? Not many, I thought. I wouldn’t have to lie much. I could just leave out certain things.
Lyda stayed in the deckhouse as I worked Sea Witch through the traffic and under the Narrows Bridge and into the outer harbor. A cruise liner was coming in and a couple of rusty tramps going out, and off Sheepshead I ran into a covey of fishing boats. No real sweat. Pretty soon we began to roll and pitch a little and I could feel the open sea under Sea Witch. She was well laden, and she rode low and steady. I made my southing and she began to roll slightly in the long, flat quartering swell. About five minutes later I heard sounds coming from the deckhouse. Then no more sounds. She was in the bathroom.
Ten minutes later she poked her head out of the deckhouse. She clung to the frame and she was the greenest dark girl I had ever seen.
She said: “I’m sick, Nick. Ohhh—I’m so sick!”
I liked that. A really sick person can’t plot much mis
chief and I could tell from one look that this kid had a real bad case of mal-de-mer.
I nodded and kept from grinning and gave her some phony sympathy. “Lie down,” I said. “Look in the medicine cabinet. I thought I saw some pills there this morning. If you don’t feel better pretty soon I’ll come and fix you a nice big bowl of thick stew.”
“B—bastard!” She clamped her hand across her mouth and turned and ran.
The Coast Guard cutter picked me up just beyond Ambrose Light. Her name was Excalibur, and she came swirling in, making a big creamy circle, and I saw her officers • watching me through glasses. I raised my right hand and made a chopping motion down toward my left wrist. I did it three times. A moment later her blinker answered, a pale eye in the daylight: R—AR— : Received and understood.
Excalibur left me then and ran east until she was just a dot on the horizon. Then she turned south and began to dog me down the coast.
Hawk was on the ball.
Chapter 6
The marine forecasts were right for once, and the good weather held. I fueled at Virginia Beach and headed for Key West with Excalibur still herding me. I worked her once on the CW transceiver, in plaincode, and was told that she would escort me to the eastern end of Cuba and then leave me. From there I presumed she would run up to Guantanamo. Anyway I was going to be on my own in the narrow gut between Cuba and the north coast of Haiti.
Lyda was a pretty sick girl for two days, then she got her sea legs and began to bounce back. A little weak and wan, but showing signs of being the Black Swan again. She evinced no interest in sex for the time being, and that was all right with me. Finally I had to sleep, and trust her, and I did and when I woke up after about 12 hours she had the cruiser on gyro and was sitting there in the chair staring at me. Damned if she didn’t have that big Webley in her hands, both hands, and was pointing it at me and it was shaking a little, up and down and sideways. It was a big heavy gun and she was a nervous girl and I was very, very careful. I spoke softly, gently, and I smiled at her.
“Better think it over,” I said. “You can’t run this cruiser by yourself. And that Coast Guard cutter knows I’m in command and they’ll be checking before they leave us. If I’m not around they’ll take you into custody and you’ll be in real trouble.”
The big revolver wavered as she thrust it at me. “Where’s the money, you bastard?”
“Oh, that!” I tried to sound tres gay, as though the revolver didn’t bother me in the least. “I hid it. Don’t worry about it. It’s safe and you’ll get it back when this is over.”
She looked mean and anxious and doubtful. “You didn’t do anything crazy? Like throwing the money overboard?”
I reached slowly for a pack of cigarettes and she didn’t shoot me and I figured I was over the hump.
“Use your head,” I said. “Do I look like a man who would toss a hundred thousand dollars overboard?”
“More than that,” she said. “Almost a hundred and fifty— and no, I guess you wouldn’t do that. Throw it overboard. But where is it?”
I lit up and blew smoke at the ceiling and said, “I’m not going to tell you that, Lyda. You’ll just have to trust me. I thought that was the whole idea—that we would trust each other. If we don’t, if we can’t, we might as well call this thing off right now. We’ve only got half a prayer now, and if we fight each other we don’t have any chance. Now put down that goddamned cannon and stop being a fool.”
She lowered the revolver but her eyes sparked yellow at me. “That money is all I have in the world. All we have—my people. I’m responsible for it.”
“Wrong,” I said. “I’m responsible for it. It’s invasion money and there is not going to be any invasion, so you don’t need it now. Tell you what I’ll do—just before we go into — Haiti I’ll show you where it is. I won’t give it to you, but I’ll show you where it’s hidden. Okay?”
It wasn’t really okay but she had to accept it. She nodded and dropped the Webley on the carpet beside the chair. “I think I know where it is,” she said sullenly, “but I can’t budge those crates.”
I could understand that. I can lift 300 pounds, and I had I been sweating getting the crates back into the locker in the forepeak.
I picked up the Webley and grinned at her. “Why this blunderbuss, of all the guns we’ve got aboard? You can hardly hold it.”
She shrugged and wouldn’t look at me. “It looked big I enough to kill you and it was already loaded. I—I really don’t know much about guns, Nick.”
I tossed the Webley out a port. Not much loss. “Don’t let your troops find that out,” I said. “A leader is supposed to be able to do anything the troops have to do, and do it better.”
She put her face in her hands and began to cry. I watched the silver tears slide down her light coffee hued cheeks. Nerves. Tension. Seasickness, whatever. I patted her shoulder lightly, offering no sympathy because I knew she didn’t really want it.
“Cry it out,” I said. “And trust me, baby. For both our sakes.”
I went up to the flying bridge and snapped her off gyro and took over the con. To my left, like a black speck on the inside of a blue bowl, the Excalibur was sheep-dogging us.
It was out of my way, but Hawk had said Key West and so Key West it had to be. Anyway I figured to get fuel and water there, taking on enough extra of both to get me to Haiti and back again. Back? I wasn’t counting much on back, but if we did make it I didn’t want to run out of fuel and water somewhere in the middle of the Caribbean. We rounded the tip of Florida and headed for the Key. I was standing a 24-hour radio watch with Excalibur and when I made my westing she was puzzled, some snafu about orders, and she came booming in on the loud speaker to question me.
I explained that I had orders for Key West and after a moment the signal came back to proceed accordingly. Even the signal sounded a little puzzled and disgruntled, and I knew how the commander of the cutter felt—he was working in the dark, on a directive from Washington, and he didn’t know what in hell it was all about.
The Gulf was a mill pond. The weather was holding and it was hot for April. I stripped to the waist, stowing the Luger and the stiletto in a locker, and began to refurbish my tan. Lyda took to wearing very short shorts and a halter. She was in good spirits again and sang as she went about her chores. Just before Key West, while I had the cruiser on gyro, she made a sudden grab for me in the deckhouse and we rolled around on the floor for a time and I got another real working over. It was good and exciting, and I didn’t mind the way she put her teeth into me.
When it was all over and she was satisfied, she was, as always, very cool and all business. By now I had her emotional patterns pretty well figured out and only hoped she didn’t deviate from them when we really got down to business.
I brought Sea Witch in at the foot of Duval Street. Instead of docking I rigged a make-do anchor and took the dinghy in. Not wanting to tempt Lyda more than necessary, I took the keys with me and, just to make doubly sure, a couple of vital doo-dads from the engines. Lyda watched this with a sardonic smile.
“Mutual trust, huh?” Her smile was white and sour. “It doesn’t seem to work both ways, does it?”
I kissed her on the mouth and patted her fanny. “I do trust you,” I lied. “But I have to follow orders or I get my ass in a sling. Orders are to take absolutely no chances.”
“Hah.”
I held her away from me and grinned. “Anyway, if your heart is pure, and you don’t intend any monkey business, what does it matter?”
As I shoved away in the dinghy I said, “Stay off the deck all you can. Keep out of sight. The Key is full of Cuban refugees and God knows who else—maybe some of the Tonton Macoute. We don’t want you spotted.”
She gave me a little wave and headed for the deckhouse, almost running. All I ever had to do was mention the Tonton Macoute and she got scared. There was something more to that than I understood at present.
I didn’t know who I was looking for. The
deal was that an AXE agent would contact me when I came ashore from Sea Witch. I snubbed the dinghy and climbed a ladder. I was wearing the green dungarees and a white tee shirt and the yachting cap and I hoped I looked like any other part time, small craft, sailor.
I was not prepared for the old man, but there he was in person. Hawk. He had on a wrinkled seersucker suit and a white shirt with a sweaty collar and a horrible tie. He had a new Panama cocked on his gray head at what he probably considered a rakish angle.
He came up to me and extended his hand and growled at me: “Hello, son. Nice to see you. You look like a pirate.”
I grinned at him. He was dry smoking one of his cheap cigars and he looked like a farmer come to town to see the sights.
I said: “Everybody tells me that, sir.”
He dropped my hand and squinted at me in the hot hard sun. “Yeah. I suppose. Come on. We haven’t got much time. I have to get back to Washington right away, and we have a lot of ground to cover. Things have come up—a lot of things.”
I fell into step with him. “Must be,” I said. “For you to come down here in person.”
The old man nodded grimly. “It’s hot and getting hotter all the time. Just to clue you in I’ll say that this could be as rough as the Cuban missile crisis.”
I whistled softly. “Devious. Very devious. I thought all I had to do was go in and snatch this Valdez out of Papa Doc’s teeth.”
“That too,” Hawk said. “That too—but a lot more.”
He led me to a Chevy hardtop and handed me the keys. ““You drive. And you can relax—I’ve got three men covering us just in case. Probably a waste, because I think the Tonton Macoute have lost you and the girl for now.”
“Leave us pray,” I said.
He glanced out over the Gulf to where the Excalibur was just visible, then flashed his false teeth at me in a grim little smile. “How are you and your escort getting along?”