Deko is beginning to get impatient. I recognize the signs.
‘Well …?’ he says.
I mumble something about all this being a bit sudden. ‘Do I get a moment here? Can I take a proper look at the script? Or is this strictly improvisation?’
The latter thought delights him. He gives me a hug and then bends to haul the first length of chain towards the door.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ he grunts. ‘We’ll sell the film rights later.’
We work in the forepeak for the rest of the afternoon. By six o’clock, the scrap iron is stored in the bunk space and Deko has removed the false floor and its supporting timbers. I’ve no idea what 150 kilos of cocaine look like, but there’s plenty of space on top of the concrete ballast and Deko is meticulous when it comes to calculations.
Afterwards, we treat ourselves to a beer on deck. We’re both filthy, caked in salt from the crossing, but Deko – to my relief – has booked a room in a nearby hotel. We have a date, he says, with a Creole friend of his.
‘Dominique? The guy you were talking to on the phone?’
‘Yes. Half seven. Pipi’s place. Another mate. Moules to die for.’
Deko locks up, and we go ashore. The hotel is tiny, three rooms at the most, and the woman who owns it greets Deko like a son. She has a very French interest in yours truly, looking me over with a frankness I always find oddly refreshing, and despite the state of my forehead I sense she must approve because she sends us upstairs with a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses. We open the champagne and drink the first glass under the shower. Deko soaps me all over and I return the favour before we retire to bed. We finish the bottle, make love, and sleep a little. After more than twenty-four hours at sea, I couldn’t be happier. Would my Aunt Beatrice approve? Should I be sitting in an interview room in the Commissariat, telling some flic what a bad man I’ve fallen for? Tant pis. I don’t care.
Pipi runs a restaurant tucked into one of the narrow side streets on the hill that climbs up from the harbour. More kisses and tall glasses of kir while Deko catches up with the local news. The more of these people I’m meeting, the more I get the impression that half the town are in on the cocaine biz. Once, I think, this prosperous little town got rich on sardines, a hard living wrestled from the sea, processed and tinned in factories along the waterfront, and then dispatched to the far corners of the motherland. Now it’s become a magnet for tourists, and – I suspect – regular consignments of the white powder ghosting in after dark.
Dominique, according to Deko, is the key link in the chain. He appears from nowhere in jeans, T-shirt, and flip-flops. He’s very black, very slight, with beautiful hands and the face of an angel. Despite his looks, his bushy Afro is threaded with grey and he carries himself with a sense of something I can only call gravity. Deko calls him the Thin Controller. The nickname doesn’t translate well into French but watching him and Deko put their heads together, I understand at once who’s in charge. Dominique talks in a whisper, never raising his voice, but his eyes never leave Deko’s face.
We eat fresh fish – loup de mer – and drink sparingly. Deko scribbles a long sequence of digits on a piece of paper and gives it to Dom. Dom studies it a moment before leaving the restaurant to make a call. When I ask Deko what’s going on he says it has to do with the deal on the cocaine. Funds are waiting in an account in Gibraltar. A coded message tomorrow night will release them.
‘This is your account?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s third party but I control it. Everyone plays the same game. You don’t need to know the details.’
‘And afterwards? Once you’ve sold on?’
‘The money gets washed. It goes in dirty and comes out clean. That’s trickier but we’re getting better at it.’
‘We?’
He smiles at me, his big hand over mine, and changes the subject. Dom, he says, is in touch with a yacht offshore, confirming tomorrow night’s meet. The money will only be released once we’ve taken delivery.
‘We get tomorrow off? During the day?’
‘We do.’
‘A girl can go shopping?’
‘She can.’
We say au revoir to Dom in a car park down by the harbour. We take it in turns to shake hands – no kisses this time – before the Thin Controller climbs stiffly into a sleek Mercedes and purrs away.
‘Paris tonight, and Lyon tomorrow.’ Deko is still watching the car. ‘When does that little man ever sleep?’
THIRTY-SEVEN
I wake up late, gone nine. My mobile is ringing and a glance at caller ID tells me it’s the male nurse at the Stroke Unit. I get out of bed, leaving Deko still asleep, and take the call in the tiny bathroom. Pavel, says the nurse, is now fully conscious. The night staff checked him at dawn and found him able to move his head.
‘Anything else?’
‘Not yet. But it’s a start. And we wanted you to be the first to know. Holiday going OK?’
‘Perfect.’ I feel strangely deflated. ‘He can’t speak?’
‘No. But he responds when we talk to him, tiny facial movements, so we think his hearing’s OK. Fingers crossed, eh?’
The call ends and I slip back into the bedroom to find Deko up on one elbow, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The news about Pavel seems to please him. Like me, he wants to know whether he can speak or not.
‘Alas, no,’ I say. ‘At least not yet.’
‘And his hands? Can he use his hands?’
‘No, but that’s been the case since the accident. He can hear, though, and it seems he can nod or shake his head. I’m not sure that qualifies as conversation but at least he’s still in there somewhere.’
We spend the morning wandering the streets of Douarnenez. Deko wants to show me the museum and we spend a couple of hours surrounded by sepia photographs, exploring the history of this little port. To my shame I never knew that Douarnenez was the first town to elect a communist maire. We emerge into the sunshine, hand in hand. In truth, I’m only half taking all this in because I’m still trying to process the consequences of yesterday’s little bombshell.
As an actress, I’m used to the challenge of new personas. For my entire working life, it’s been literally my business to become someone else, but this latest role, I suspect, may be forever. Has Deko turned me into a drug dealer? A low life? A criminal? Une femme au milieu? And does that put me in the same league as H? This latter thought has a pleasing irony but events last year, when Malo got himself entangled with the cocaine biz, tell me that the marching powder can lead to somewhere very dark indeed. And so in the end I settle for ‘smuggler’, because it feels more honourable. This is denial, of course, but it definitely helps me cope. I’ve become a character in a period movie, I tell myself, the dashing blonde with her handsome beau, always one step ahead of the Revenue Men.
At lunchtime, I persuade Deko to take the walk through the pine trees to the nearby beach. La plage du Ris is truly spectacular, a deep crescent of startling white sand that seems to stretch for ever. Just the first glimpse of it through the trees conjures all kind of memories. We take off our sandals and splash through the shallows while I tell Deko about long-ago picnics, and rockpool expeditions, and the afternoon when I got into trouble in an offshore current and nearly drowned. The latter story briefly gets his attention, but I know his mind’s elsewhere. Time and again, his gaze drifts back towards the distant harbour, and by four o’clock, we’re back on board.
We leave Douarnenez within the hour. Deko takes on more fuel at a pontoon in the Port de Plaisance and we motor west, no sails, following the line of the coast. Mercifully, the sea is calm, not a whisper of wind. Out beyond the headland at Plogoff is a little island, l’Ile de Sein. Local boats use the channel in between, while the bigger ships – wary of the Breton coast – are way offshore. This leaves a discreet little area west of the lighthouse where, in Deko’s phrase, we can park up and relax. No snoopers. No watching eyes. No Revenue Men.
&nbs
p; Perfect? Safe? Une bonne idée? To be honest, I’ve no idea. The fact that Deko has done this before, not once but twice, is deeply comforting. I know he’s no stranger to risk, but I trust his competence because I’ve seen him in action, and I sense he wouldn’t be doing this without weighing the odds. H always tells me that you’ve got to be stupid, as well as unlucky, to get caught out in the drugs biz and that, too, is a comfort. What little I know about French prisons fills me with dread.
We’re passing the lighthouse as dusk shrouds the low line of the coast. Every French child, and every English tourist, knows this landmark. It features on a million calendars, normally the very centre of a huge white explosion of spume and surf, and it’s become a kind of watermark that badges everything Breton. Deko, at the wheel, points out the heavy black letters on the grey stonework, Ar Men, Breton for The Rock. This, of course, is the name Deko has adopted for his beloved Thonier. In its adapted form – Amen – it’s taken on a slightly religious overtone and in view of the hours to come, I’m wondering whether now might be the moment for a prayer or two, but then I tell myself that trust is a much simpler proposition.
‘That’s you.’ I’m pointing to the lighthouse. ‘Ar Men. My rock.’
An hour or so later, dark now, Deko consults his GPS and then throttles the engine back until we’re drifting, almost motionless. For minutes on end, we stand together in the darkness, waiting for the next fierce stab of light from Ar Men, watching the beam sweep towards us, briefly turn everything bone white, and then move on.
Deko has lit another cheroot. The yacht we’re due to meet, he says, has just sailed across the Atlantic. Three weeks ago, it left a Caribbean island called Aruba. On board are a mixed bunch of Colombians and Antillaises under a maverick American skipper called Noah. After us, she’ll probably be heading south again to another island called Groix for a second drop-off.
‘And then?’
‘They go ashore. Probably La Rochelle. And party.’
The yacht appears three hours later. It’s much bigger than I’d expected, the long hull a shape in the darkness, then tall masts caught for a moment in the beam from the lighthouse. Deko is talking to the skipper on his phone. The skipper has an American accent and laughs a lot. Very slowly, the yacht approaches and I glimpse sallow faces on deck. In a rough sea, a rendezvous like this would be very difficult, but tonight the conditions are perfect.
Deko has already hung fenders from the rail and I feel a gentle bump as the big yacht comes alongside. Hands reach up for mooring lines. Then Deko is swinging the long wooden boom out towards the yacht. A big blue net I’ve seen earlier below is now dangling from the end of the boom. Crew on the yacht reach up to secure it and moments later they’re filling it with plastic-wrapped blocks the size of a hardback book. Deko calls them ‘bricks’.
‘How ya doing?’ This has to be Noah.
Deko reaches down and shakes his hand. Noah says they’ve had the dream crossing, the westerly trades much kinder than usual, nothing to speak of in the way of weather. When Deko asks about rumours of early retirement, Noah says they’re true.
‘Got myself a little island.’ He’s laughing again. ‘And three women to go with it. I’d invite you over, but I don’t want no fox in the fucking coop. Good luck, buddy. I’ll be over in a minute.’
Deko swings the boom back in and we unpack the first net full of bricks. Earlier, I’d cleared a space in the saloon. Deko has produced a pair of electronic scales and it’s my job to weigh each brick and keep a tally as they come in. We carry them down the narrow stairs. I can just manage three bricks at a time. Each of these, according to Deko, is worth thirty thousand pounds. An armful, therefore, is ninety thousand pounds. That’s a lifetime’s supply of Chanel No 5, I tell myself. Truly weird.
Quicker than I ever expected, the transfer is over. I count the bricks twice. Each weighs exactly one kilo and in all there are 150. Some of them are marked Diamante, others Brillante. Deko checks one more time, just to make sure, and then we’re joined by Noah, who’s clambered aboard with a couple of bottles of bourbon. I rustle up three glasses and we crack the first bottle open. Noah is scruffy-handsome, slighter than Deko, but carries himself with the same sense of something I can only call entitlement. These guys, I think, are truly the Masters of the Universe. They play for the highest stakes, and they rarely lose. They also have a lot of fun in the process and it shows. Fuck the odds. Death to the Revenue Men. Just do it. Do I feel guilt? A little. Am I impressed by the sheer smoothness of this operation? Alas, yes.
Deko offers the piece of paper I saw in the restaurant last night. Noah scans it quickly and then makes a call on his mobile. He spells out the line of digits, listens for confirmation, then keeps the line open while Deko gives him the shot of bourbon. We all clink glasses and toss the scorching liquid back.
‘Another, buddy?’
Noah shakes his head. He’s listening to a voice at the other end. ‘Gracias,’ he mutters, then looks up at us. ‘Done.’
Done. The two men are back on deck. I hear their footsteps overhead as Noah heads for the ladder and leaves. Then comes the cough of an engine, and I imagine the big yacht vanishing into the darkness, pursued by the restless beam of the lighthouse.
Done. Four and a half million pounds’ worth of cocaine. It occupies all of the table and most of the floor beneath, a neatly organized spread of 100 per cent pure cocaine, a market guaranteed, eager takers in every city on earth, money for virtually nothing. I start transferring the bricks to the space Deko has made on top of the ballast, picking my way between the bunks, trying to avoid the pile of scrap metal. In the forepeak, I kneel, arranging the bricks carefully side by side, exactly the way Deko has showed me. One layer takes thirty bricks. I start another, and then a third, stooping back and forth in the half darkness. By now Deko has started the engine and we’re underway, Amen moving sweetly north, away from the lighthouse.
Finally, I’ve finished. The door is still open behind me and the plastic jigsaw of wrapped and taped bricks gleam in the spill of light from the saloon. A couple of days ago, before we set out on this voyage, I’d never have dreamed of an image like this and I’m tempted to take a photo on my phone but already I’m wary of what might end up as evidence in court. Be careful, I tell myself. No footprints in the snow.
Back up on deck, Deko stands at the wheel. Behind us, I can still see the regular sweep from the Ar Men lighthouse, and when I look up the blackness of the night sky is pricked by a trillion tiny stars. There’s also the hint of a new moon, no more than a creamy yellow shaving, hanging above the horizon.
‘Three hundred and fifty-six.’ Deko nods down at the compass in the binnacle. ‘Almost due north. We’re making four knots. No need to hurry. Off Ushant in time for an early lunch.’
He stands aside, letting me take control. My eyes are accustomed to the darkness by now and I play with the big wooden wheel, the spokes between my fingers, moving it left and right, trying to get a feel for the boat. Deko has warned me that she’s slow to respond and he’s right. Take her to port, feel her gently heel, and the temptation – at once – is to over-correct. Take her to starboard too soon, and exactly the same thing happens. Deko watches me for a minute or two as we zig-zag slowly north. At last, the compass needle settles on 356 degrees, and he lights another cheroot.
‘Everything stowed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘No regrets?’
‘None.’ I shoot him a look. ‘Am I being naïve, here? Or is it always this easy?’
He chuckles. It’s a lovely sound, utterly in keeping with the velvet peace we seem to have found, everything behaving itself, everything on our side. Down below, I think, four and a half million pounds are waiting for their master to tuck them up and kiss them goodnight.
‘What will you do when we get to Exmouth?’ I ask.
‘Go to the Arms and watch the football.’
‘That’s no
t my question.’
‘I know it’s not.’
‘So, what’s the answer? We arrive with all this stuff. You’ve put the floor back, put down a layer of whatever, piled the scrap iron on top. What then?’
Deko is standing by the rail, staring into the darkness, the tip of the cheroot glowing between his fingers, and I’m starting to wonder whether he heard my last question.
‘You forgot the oil,’ he says.
‘Oil?’
‘Old engine oil. That goes on last, just a sprinkle. It smells foul. No dog would ever get a sniff of the coke through that.’
I smile, checking the compass again. Deko breaks the law the way he cooks, I think, with minute attention to every last detail. I’m wondering whether to ask him again about what happens next but then decide it can wait. Back in Douarnenez, I bought fillets of sea bass for this morning’s celebratory lunch. As soon as he’s finished down below, I’ll surrender the wheel and set to in the galley. No wine this time.
‘Look.’ Deko is pointing back towards the coast. There’s the faintest hint of dawn in the east, the day rekindled, and even as we watch the darkness seems to be vanishing.
‘Time for you to clock on, Mr Deko,’ I tell him. ‘And a cup of coffee for the helmsman might be nice.’
The coffee never happens. I stand at the wheel for the next couple of hours, listening to the sound of hammering from down below as the sky lightens and the sun comes up. Tiny ropes of cloud plait and re-plait over the distant coastline. From time to time, far out to sea, I catch a smudge of what might be smoke from one of the bigger ships but otherwise – apart from a lone trawler heading back towards Douarnenez – we’re completely alone. It’s a strange feeling but under the circumstances I’m more than grateful.
Last night, back in the hotel, I asked Deko why he hadn’t chosen to make a UK landfall somewhere more remote than Exmouth. Some little creek in Cornwall, say, or even west Wales. Wouldn’t that be safer? Rather than a busy estuary like the Exe? He said he understood my thinking but I was wrong. Turn up somewhere as a complete stranger and you immediately attract attention. Return to a mooring where everyone knows you, and no one turns a hair. Deko’s back. Big deal.
Off Script Page 27