Penny had understood, but that was all. She hadn’t agreed. And now she was gone. And he was sitting in a canoe on a turquoise sea feeling sorry for himself.
‘Fuck a pig,’ he muttered to himself, and took charge of the canoe’s direction again, turning it in a long arc back towards the shore.
He found Rob Cafell halfway through breakfast, and helped himself from the self-service buffet.
‘Cabs offer tours of the island,’ Cafell told him, ‘or we can hire a four-wheel drive. Some of the roads are not exactly built yet, apparently.’
‘Hiring a car sounds better. Can we do it from here?’
‘No, but the place is only a mile or so away.’
‘Good.’ Marker looked at his watch. ‘And Franklin should be reachable by then.’
‘I’m ready to go.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Marker said, scooping up the last of the tropical fruit salad. ‘But you’re too good to be true.’
They collected the documents they needed and started up the road which led inland from the cove, declining several offers of a cab. It was hot – probably over twenty-five degrees already, though it was not yet eight-thirty – and there wasn’t much in the way of shade. The rolling terrain was covered with vegetation, but mostly in the form of scrub. In the open countryside trees were few and far between.
Leeward Rent-A-Car was situated on the other side of the island’s main highway, at its junction with the road from the hotel, and was just opening for business as they arrived. Marker left Cafell and the owner picking a vehicle, and went inside to use the phone. He dialled the clinic’s number and asked to speak to the administrative secretary.
‘Worrell Franklin speaking.’
‘Mr Franklin, the consignment of textbooks you ordered from London has arrived.’
Franklin smiled to himself. ‘Great. I’ll collect them this afternoon.’
‘You know where to come?’
‘Yep, thanks.’
‘Thank you,’ Marker said, and hung up.
Outside, Cafell was signing papers on the bonnet of a four-wheel-drive Subaru.
Within minutes they were on the highway, heading east.
They spent the next four hours exploring the island, from the Leeward Marina opposite Mangrove Cay at one end to the secluded, west-facing beach at the other. They briefly visited a conch farm, the ruins of an old slave plantation and a nature reserve. The only road they didn’t venture on to was the one which led down towards Arcilla’s house on Long Bay. There was no point in offering the enemy a free memory of their faces until they had a plan of action.
In the afternoon they hired a boat from one of the diving services on Grace Bay and tested their equipment on the undersea wall west of Provo, where the shallow waters of the island shelf abruptly dropped into the thousand-fathom depths of the Caicos Passage. Spectacular formations of rock and coral hung over the edge of the wall, and both men caught glimpses of sharks and rays cruising in the shadows. It all seemed a long way from Poole Bay.
‘Some people have to pay for all this,’ Cafell said, as they stripped off their wetsuits before taking the boat back in.
For Franklin the day passed by at a snail’s pace. He had only had one class to take, but, much to the amusement of his students, twice found his attention drifting helplessly away from the subject in hand.
Soon after five he left the clinic. The Coconut Cove was only ten minutes away by car, but he had decided on walking, and by a roundabout route at that. It might well be no more than paranoia, but several times over the past week he had felt that he was being followed.
After receiving the welcome but surprising news from Joss Wynwood, Franklin’s first reaction had been to sit and wait for the reinforcements to arrive. But this, he had quickly realized, would look suspicious. If he didn’t keep up his campaign of harassment against Sergeant Oswald and the authorities, then the opposition might get the idea that he had something else up his sleeve.
Now, striding purposefully down the dirt road which reached the northern coast some two miles west of the Coconut Cove, he was eager to meet the SBS men who had been sent out from England. He still had little idea of what any of them could do to find Russell, but over the past few days he had decided there must be more at stake in this matter than he knew. And that meant that the SBS men should have as much to tell him as he had to tell them. And then maybe between them they could build up a wider picture and come up with a suitable plan of action. He hoped this was true, because the only plan he had managed to formulate on his own was not one with which he felt at all comfortable.
Reaching the beach, Franklin walked down to the sea, took off his shoes and paddled around in the shallow water for several minutes, keeping one eye on the road he had arrived by. No walker appeared, and no car. If he was being followed, then it wasn’t with much thoroughness.
Darkness fell as he walked the two-mile stretch of beach, and the lights of the hotel grew brighter with every moment. In the bar he spotted the two men straight away, sitting with their cans of Heineken and reading a week-old Daily Express. He would have known them without the prearranged signs, simply from the fact that they both looked so fit.
When they got up to leave he waited a minute, and then followed them out to the beach. Half a mile to the east, when all were sure that they weren’t being followed, the two SBS men stopped and waited for Franklin to catch up.
They introduced themselves, and sat down with their backs against the abandoned hulk of a rowing boat. A large and lonely sapodilla tree towered above them, black against the sky. To left and right the empty beach stretched away into the darkness.
After Franklin had confirmed that he had no fresh news of Russell, they briefed him on the wider reasons for their presence.
‘Have you been keeping an eye on Arcilla’s house?’ Marker asked.
‘Not really. I’ve been up there a few times, but I can’t spend my life in a hide. I’ve got a job to do. And my mother’s visiting from England,’ he added with a rueful grin. ‘But we’ve got some friends up on Long Bay, and the guy at the marina isn’t what you’d call close-mouthed. Arcilla’s helicopter has made a couple of trips to who knows where; the last one was the day before yesterday. After dark both times, which sounds a bit suspicious. The boat hasn’t been back . . .’
‘The boat’s anchored between Muertos Cays and the Dog Rocks on the Cay Sal Bank,’ Cafell told him. ‘It’s a region of shallows between Cuba and Florida,’ he added. ‘Since it’s one of the prime drop sites for drug planes, the US Coast Guard checked the Tiburón Blanco out a few days ago. The identity of the owner didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but they can’t arrest a boat for sitting in international waters. And unless it’s waiting a hell of a long time for a drop, it’s probably doing what it says it is – treasure hunting. There are lots of known wrecks there, and quite a few more which no one has ever found. The Santa Lucia . . .’
‘I don’t think Worrell needs a run-down of famous wrecks,’ Marker interrupted. ‘Has Arcilla been here himself?’ he asked Franklin.
‘Not as far as I know. And there’s no reason to think he’s skulking in his villa. His sister’s behaviour hasn’t changed. Neither has the caretaker’s.’
‘We’re waiting for a complete run-down on Arcilla,’ Marker said. ‘Maybe that’ll give us some ideas. But the way I see it at the moment, the only thing of Arcilla’s on this island is his house. We have to get into it, one way or another. The question is how.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that for ten days now,’ Franklin said slowly, ‘and there’s not much doubt what the easiest way into it is. In all the hours I’ve watched the place I’ve seen three strangers go through the front gate – and all of them have been picked up by Tamara Arcilla at the Club Med-Turkoise.’
Cafell laughed. ‘You’re not suggesting one of us gets himself picked up . . .’
Franklin shrugged. ‘I don’t like it, but . . .’
‘The things a man must do for hi
s country,’ Marker murmured.
‘Is she beautiful?’ Cafell wanted to know.
‘Yes, she is,’ Franklin admitted.
‘I know we’re both devastatingly good-looking,’ Marker said, ‘but what makes you think she’d pick one of us out of the crowd?’
‘It’s the low season,’ Franklin said, ‘and there’s not much of a crowd.’
‘I don’t know,’ Cafell said. It didn’t feel right, though he wasn’t sure why. James Bond did it all the time, and probably charged condoms to expenses.
Marker was looking out to sea, trying to think of an alternative. ‘What about a break-in?’ he asked.
‘You have a look at the place tomorrow,’ Franklin said. ‘It wouldn’t be difficult to get in, but to search the place thoroughly without getting caught . . . There’s always people there. And with the woman, well, there’s always the chance she’ll let something slip in conversation.’
‘Or talk in her sleep,’ Cafell offered.
‘What’s her taste in men?’ Marker asked.
‘All the ones I’ve seen her with have been dark.’
‘I’m afraid it’s up to you then, boss,’ Cafell said. ‘Of course I’ll give you detailed advice . . .’
Marker didn’t laugh. He could hear Penny screaming, ‘I only stayed with you for the fucking sex.’ There had to be some other way to do this.
7
This is not going to work, Marker thought to himself. There had to be about twenty available-looking men spread around the Club Med-Turkoise dining room, and probably the same number again in the bar next door. Knowing Tamara Arcilla’s predatory m.o. might give him an edge, but forty to one was still long odds.
He lifted the glass of wine to his lips, took a modest sip, and put it down again. Another couple of drinks and his ability to think straight would follow his inhibitions into limbo-land.
He wondered where the inhibitions came from. Before Penny he had stalked his way through enough parties and pubs in search of women to screw. In Hong Kong he had occasionally gone with a street whore. What was the line from the song? – ‘times I was so lonesome I took some comfort there.’ Lonesome? Horny, more like it. Sex for its own sake was hardly a crime, and he was only sitting at this table because that was the way Tamara Arcilla seemed to like it.
So why was he agonizing about it? Nick Russell’s life might depend on him screwing this woman. Maybe other people’s too. He told himself to stop being so bloody moralistic, and took a larger gulp of the claret, just as the waiter appeared at his shoulder suggesting coffee. He raised his head to say yes just in time to see the woman enter.
He immediately knew it was her, and the signal from Franklin, sitting across the room, merely offered confirmation. At least she didn’t look like Penny, he thought. Almost the opposite in fact. She had those classic Spanish cheek-bones which in some faces seemed unbearably haughty but which in hers were more than offset by the full lips and tumbling hair. The eyes were deep and dark, but Marker was too far away to read any expression they might hold.
She was wearing a simple red cotton dress which made the most of her figure, and walked with an easy grace. Inside his head Marker heard a familiar schoolboy saying, yeah, I’d like to give her one.
He sugared his black coffee and looked at his watch. According to Franklin she never ate more than a starter, before moving through to the bar.
Marker waited patiently, drinking the coffee more from a sense of duty than pleasure. At first he tried not to stare at her, but then realized that it was hardly a suspicious thing to do – most of the men in the restaurant were finding it hard to keep their eyes off her. Occasionally she would look up and catch someone, and a slight smile would crease her lips. It occurred to Marker that with a brother like Fidel Arcilla she would probably have been allowed little control over her own life. Maybe here, in the choosing of sexual partners, she was exercising the only power she had. Like a female Sultan she was visiting her harem to pick out a man for the night.
Suddenly she was getting to her feet and walking out, hips swinging slightly, the dark hair dancing on her bare shoulders.
Marker followed her out of the restaurant, hoping that she followed her usual pattern and went to the ladies, before gracing the bar with her presence.
She did, and Marker quickly took in the situation at the bar. There were only four stools unoccupied, in two pairs of two. Of the four seats adjoining these, one was occupied by a woman, two by middle-aged Americans and one by a handsome young West Indian. Marker took the seat next to him, and hoped she didn’t change her usual habits and take a table.
He ordered a drink and waited, feeling more than a little ridiculous. If she was on a power trip, he told himself, then she would have to choose him. He couldn’t afford to show any interest in her until she had made the decision. He took a diving school leaflet out of his pocket and begun to study it.
The scent of her perfume was the first thing he was aware of. It was a subtle, lovely, expensive smell. He looked up to say hello and found her eyes already on him. Franklin had told them of his feeling that she was lonely at best, seriously disturbed at worst, and maybe, Marker thought, he was seeing something that wasn’t really there, but in that moment her dark eyes seemed to hold a sort of quiet desperation. A stab of pity went through him, just as the smile lit up her face, and drove the bleakness of the eyes away.
‘Hi,’ he said, smiled, and went back to his leaflet.
‘If you’re interested in diving you should try the Laurel Canyon,’ she said.
‘Oh, where’s that?’ he asked.
‘On the West Wall.’
He half turned back to the leaflet, then looked up again. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he asked, in a tone that was mixed politeness and kindness. His parents would have been proud of him, he thought.
‘Thank you,’ she said, with another smile.
Marker was finding it hard not to stare at her. Her legs were crossed and the red dress had ridden up, exposing beautiful brown thighs. When she leant forward to put an elbow on the bar more square inches of brown breast came into view.
‘Do you live here?’ he asked.
‘Uh-huh. I have a house over on Long Bay. How long are you here for?’
‘Two weeks. We arrived the day before yesterday.’
‘We?’
‘A friend and I. A male friend. We belong to the same diving club in England.’ Which was almost true, Marker thought.
‘I like the English,’ she said. ‘Mostly because they are not American,’ she added, smiling. ‘Tell me what you do when you’re not diving.’
They talked for the next hour, working their way through several drinks in the process. She talked about the islands, and asked Marker about England and himself, but the occasional attempts he made to get her to talk about herself all fell on stony ground. She never refused, just deftly changed the conversation back to safer territory.
After an hour Marker was beginning not to care. He was not drunk, but neither did he feel any intense urge to organize his thoughts. Most of all he wanted sex with her, wanted it more strongly than he could remember wanting sex with anyone for years, Penny included. And he didn’t want to think about why.
It was hard not to, though. He told himself it was a primal urge, and that was all there was to it. It was the same urge which had given him such rock-hard erections looking at Playboy centrefolds when he was fourteen. It had nothing to do with love or affection or home or anything like that. He just wanted to fuck her, and not because of any desire to extract information from her. He just wanted to fuck her.
And it seemed she wanted to fuck him.
‘I’d like a walk on the beach,’ she said abruptly.
‘Great idea,’ he murmured.
There were a few couples on the beach in front of the hotel, but the two of them hadn’t walked more than a hundred yards when the sand stretched away empty into the darkness. She put an arm through his, and he felt a shot of electricity pass thr
ough him, then a slowly rising sense of excitement. She leant across to kiss him lightly on the lips, as if she was announcing that he had won that evening’s prize.
They walked on in a silence broken only by their feet in the sand and the distant swish of the waves on the reef. After about half a mile she pulled them to a halt, and turned to face him, her back to the sea. ‘I feel like a swim,’ she said, kicking off her shoes. She slipped her shoulders out of the straps, let the dress fall, and stepped out of it. ‘Unhook me,’ she said, turning her back to him. He did so, and she dropped the brassiere neatly on the dress.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ she asked, pulling down the lacy knickers.
She walked into the sea. Marker watched her for a moment, silhouetted against the sky, and then took off his clothes and followed her in.
She swam well, and they were fifty yards or so out from the shore when he caught her up and roughly pulled her into his arms. The water was only about four feet deep, and they found themselves standing in it. She returned his kiss hungrily, almost too hungrily, and pushed her body hard against his. The stray thought went through his head that if there were perfect relative heights for doing it standing up then his and hers qualified.
‘Not here,’ she said. She sank back into the water and started swimming back towards the shore. He followed, thinking that a few seconds earlier he had been trying to insert himself, without a condom, into a woman who probably slept with two hundred men a year.
She had more sense. ‘If you don’t have one I do,’ she said.
‘I have one,’ he said, reaching into his trouser pockets for the packet he had bought earlier that evening.
‘Give me,’ she said, holding herself against him and kissing him again. ‘And lie down on your back.’
He did as he was told, his mind spinning off into the distance as she sat astride his knees and took the condom out of its packet. Then she leant forward and took his penis briefly in her mouth, as if she was lubricating it for him. Marker felt he would come on the spot, and frantically tried using his mind to bring his body under control.
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