He wondered how much Elaine knew. He’d find out. He still didn’t trust her, but not because she was devious. She was just unpredictable, undependable. He wouldn’t have minded having Kelly with him now. What a waste! Such a good man stuck in the Joy. Probably somewhere else by now, somewhere with tighter security. He checked himself again. Keep your mind on what you’re at. Forget the guesswork.
He turned from the porthole, took a deep breath, consciously relaxed for a few seconds and went back into the sumptuous cabin. As he clicked the door shut behind him, he noticed again the difference of sound and sensation in the bedroom, sealed from the discomfort of the rest of the boat. Elaine lay on the bed, hair tousled over one eye of her satisfied and relaxed face. The satin had fallen over her legs and hips, suggesting more strongly, with its contours the shape of her thighs and the promise she held, than plain nudity. The gentle arch of the long back was shaped under the sheet. Her eyes blinked. Cullen wanted to forget what he had learned and thought in the bathroom. He wanted to return to the pure and simple pleasure that they’d had. He thought how strange it was that you can learn about something or someone every day — especially yourself. He smiled. He remembered fellows talking about things they had done, or heard done, with women. Cullen didn’t believe them. That was perversion and he never wanted to think that he was susceptible to that. Now he knew differently. There was something far more pressing on his mind at that moment, than what was pressing against the towel wrapped around his waist.
Elaine smiled at him, then looked at his bulging towel and said,
“You’re a healthy man, m’sieur.”
She propped herself on her elbows, so that her breasts leaned gently on her tanned forearms.
He laughed, coughed, and swallowed the thick, viscous spittle of lust that filled his throat. He moved to the far side of the bed and sat on it, his back to her.
“Go do your shower or whatever. I’ve got to see Gustav, or whoever it is, for something to eat.”
He was pulling on his slacks as he spoke.
She raised herself to her knees, stroked the back of his neck and unwound herself from the broad bed. Tentatively, he turned to watch her leave. The bikini-white buttocks, firm and shapely, jiggled lightly as she left the room. The legs seemed longer. He noticed the way she walked on her toes even in her bare feet. A long sigh escaped him and he turned back from the door of the bathroom. He felt he was wasting time thinking about what Gustav was up to. He’d rather occupy himself with Elaine. He wondered for a moment if he was being an idiot. What could Gustav do to harm him? Why should he want to do anything against Cullen? Hadn’t he travelled all the way from France to collect him? Or to collect Cullen’s cargo? The possibility of treachery again became apparent, but weren’t they going to Ireland? Why? At whose request? He remembered Gustav telling him to mind his own business. No, he decided, something wasn’t right. He had a right to know. He pulled on his sweater. Bending forward, he dried his feet with the towel he’d had on his waist and slipped on his runners. He went to the bag beside the top of the bed, paused and listened. The noise of the shower came clearly to him. He could hear the breaks in the splashes and the running of the water as she moved under it. He was alone.
He placed the bag on the floor beside the bed and knelt beside it. He reached in and gripped the Webley. Before taking it out, he listened again. She was still in the shower, humming tunelessly. He lifted out the handgun and broke it open. There were only four rounds in the chamber and they popped onto the floor. He gathered them and took two more from his ammunition supply. He spun the chamber and clicked on the safety. Pulling the zip on the bag, he placed it again in the small space between the top of the bed and the bedside cupboard. He placed the handgun into the waistband around his back, near the right side. He went to the large wardrobe, slid the door back and took out his jacket. He looked for a moment at the huge variety of clothes which belonged to Elaine. There were feathers, leathers, silks — all kinds of fabrics. The floor of the wardrobe was covered with a splendid array of footwear. There was every kind of shoe: light sandals to expensive, soft leather boots. He wondered whether Gustav bought them for her, or whether she got them for her own efforts. He could imagine her in the clothes. She would wear them well. Anything less wouldn’t do her justice. He thought of her body again. Even without clothes, she had an elegance. Most people nude left something to be wanted. Not Elaine. Not her. A light cough made him turn.
“You like them?” she asked.
He was pleased for a moment. He hadn’t heard her finish in the shower or come out to the room. Not good, he said to himself. The concentration isn’t what it should be. He was not behaving or thinking or feeling as he should be. His thoughts and feelings were always coming back to her. He felt vulnerable.
She stood before him in a short wrap-around towel. Her bosom and legs were bare, her wet hair flat on her finely shaped head. In a deliberate tease, she cast her eyes to the wardrobe, then ostentatiously folded her arms under her generous breasts, hugging them lightly and lifting them, making them more prominent. With a light smile and a direct look, she asked,
“Like what you see?”
He could smell her wet hair. The sense and scent of her body was revived in his memory as if he were touching her. She moved to him and reached one hand to his, the other still holding her bosom. She arched her shoulders, straightening as she did. She was nearly as tall as he. The wet hair and the scent of her soap and flesh filled him. She caught his hand gently and guided it beneath the short white towel. Gently and with accuracy, she placed his fingers between the wet lips in her hair. She moved one leg, raised a foot to widen the gap between her thighs. Her mouth opened slightly and she stared deep and unblinking into his eyes. Her jaw moved and her lips met, briefly parting again as she dry swallowed her whisper to him.
“Please, Steven Cullen. Please!”
He tried to shake his head, tried to say no, that he had something urgent to do, to see to. That they needed food. That he was going to see Gustav about the direction they were going. That they should be going towards France. But his mouth was dry and open, letting shallow draughts of air into his panting lungs. His thighs were rubber. He moved towards the bed with her and, as he dropped his jacket on the floor, placed the Webley on the table. He lowered his zip with care, because he had abandoned himself to the throb and the drive which filled him for the woman laying before him. He felt his mouth thicken and a slight sting in his staring eyes as he watched her move beneath him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The bulb which hung in the landing of Doyle’s house was a weak one, only a night light. The blinds were drawn on the windows which faced the village street. The three men had a clear entry and neither they, nor their shadows, would be seen from the road. Pritchard was about to move forward, steal along the corridor leading to the room where the Doyle’s slept when he felt a hold on his shoulder. He turned. The grim face of Larry Maguire watched his eyes. Pritchard had never seen Maguire like this before and began to understand the reputation. Over the time they had approached and entered the house, Pritchard had become aware of Maguire’s mounting tension. It came across in the soft, terse commands, the brief signs, the quick decisions, and now, as he turned and looked into the face behind him, he could see it alive in the man he had decided to follow. The whites of his eyes were clear and the lids were unmoving. What drew his attention, like a magnet, was the tiny dazzle lighting the pinpoint pupils. The face was not smiling, but there was a faintly pleased look on it, as if it were forcefully containing some inner joy it could not communicate to anyone else.
Maguire nodded in the direction of the bedroom, pointed a finger to himself and hoisted his index finger in the air. The message was clear. Pritchard nodded, leaned back and let Maguire pass as the leader in the advance.
Maguire moved quickly. Even though he was of stocky build and inclined to flesh, he was fit and lithe. He glided rather than walked along the corridor. He balanced his wei
ght cleanly on each foot. The steps were measured. His progress gave Pritchard and Boylan the confidence they needed; his urgency and sense of purpose overcame their reluctance. They followed in keen imitation. At the bedroom door, he halted. He moved to the side and peered in past the doorpost. Within moments he could make out the sleeping figure of Doyle on the left side of the bed. The fisherman’s large back and shoulders were uncovered. He lay face down, his hands beside his head.
Maguire did not move. He looked over at Eileen Doyle, covered to the top of her head with a light eiderdown. As far as Maguire could make out, she was facing into the room, towards the dark.
The window above Doyle’s head had the curtains parted in the middle. A weak hint of the fitful moon fell on the big man’s sleeping face. Maguire realised it would be necessary to get to the woman first. Clamp any screams. His mind raced as he figured a failsafe way to cross the room, silence the woman and keep the man covered, while ensuring silence all the time.
The decisions were already made in his mind. This was Maguire’s life, the moments for which he existed. The times in between were for ruminating, remembering past episodes, considering what he had done right or wrong, and what could be improved upon. All the time between his coups, Maguire let his mind tick over the possibilities of a perfect operation. To him, the action, the whole process of any criminal operation in which he was involved, was the source of life. These were the moments for which he lived. These were the times in which his mind and body and spirit were vitalized and stretched to their limits of ability.
In action his mind was primed. He was already absorbing the tension, waiting for it like an eager sportsman — set, tensed, anticipating the play before it began, sensing the dangers, feeling the run of the game, reading the signs seconds before they were apparent. His total being was directed towards the job. He was the job. The job was him. It was as if the happenings were already there, waiting to fall into his life like a jigsaw. Because he had the picture clear in his mind, could see it as an artist sees the canvas, Maguire fitted the people and the circumstances into the frame so that they filled the void of time to make the picture he needed. Consequently there was no fear, no hesitation as he moved and thought, dictated the run of events to fill his mental canvas. His spirit was aimed to the goal. His energies and whole life were committed to the image in his mind.
He turned to the man behind him. He motioned to Boylan to cover Doyle; to Pritchard to stay at the door. The machine was in motion, running freely. There was no doubt in his approach. He was moving on instinct now, no conscious thought slowing down the run of the plan. His legs moved with quiet grace, soundless — he was putting the feet ahead to bring him to the next objective in this encounter.
He moved swiftly, unaware of anything except what was happening in the present. The dark of the room meant nothing, for his mind had already seen and clocked the entire area of the room in which he would function. The basic energy of his delight moved him in silence. His whole life was gathered and concentrated on the controlled force of his activity. He reached the far side of the bed and looked down at the sleeping woman, calm and relaxed in her world, oblivious to the intrusion in her life. In the split second of his glance, faintly lit by the moon through the parted curtain of the window, he saw her position, judged her vulnerability and possible resistance.
As his left hand covered her mouth, he was aware of a movement by the man. But Maguire did not halt or hesitate. He knew he was first, was on top, ahead in the game. Doyle’s movement was slight, unsure, the first fidget of an interrupted sleep, ineffectual. And far too late.
Maguire felt the softness of the woman’s mouth under his grip, the sudden cessation of startled breath, the body — now an extension of his own sure touch — going rigid in fear. The corner of his eye took in Doyle’s disturbance: the head raising from the pillow in sleepy wonder, the jerk as the terrible realisation of something very wrong began to register. Maguire could see the dark, menacing shadow of Boylan fill the chink of moonlight, place the lethal barrel of the Uzi on the man’s shoulder, then press with a quiet ferocity between the shoulder blades.
This is the way it would go. He knew it now. The frightened reaction of his victims put him farther ahead. His mind had acknowledged the first victory of the series that would follow. He was already into the first stage, piling the next surprise on the first one, not allowing the moment to hinder the flow of events which had begun. His right hand brought the barrel of the handgun to Eileen Doyle’s forehead. He turned his face to Doyle. He could see he was fully awake and scarcely breathing. He could imagine the effort to think that Doyle was making. Maguire could see that, feel it. Without any conscious effort on his part, his mind took in the situation as it changed, fraction by fraction of each second. He knew now that he was right in going for the woman — that Doyle’s weak spot was not himself, but his wife. His voice was a flat utterance, a low metallic projection of the mind.
“One move, one sound, and she’s dead.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cullen woke slowly. His sleep had been deep. He started, raised himself on an elbow and checked his watch. Twelve o’clock. He listened. Elaine’s breathing was light, barely audible in the quiet of the room. Something was different. It took him a moment to realise what it was. The sense of momentum was less. Fully alert, he swung off the bed and checked for his Webley. It was where he’d left it. He hauled on his slacks and padded quickly to the toilet.
Even as he opened the door, he knew that they had slowed a lot. He looked through the porthole. Peering intently at the sea, he could see no charging wake like earlier. The vibration of the engine had reduced. There was no reverberating hum under the tiled floor, just a murmuring rumble. They were moving, he could see that, but they were barely making headway. He kept on looking into the night. High, fine clouds shifted slowly under a reluctant moon. He focussed on a tiny light in the distance. There were a few. At first he hadn’t seen them, they were that small, but then, watching them closely, and as the moon drifted out from under the clouds, he could just make out the dark mass behind the lights. It was black and solid, irregularly shaped. He was already wondering which part of Ireland he had seen. His mind was churning with possibilities and questions: why were they back? What orders had Gustav been following? Whose? The dread of his own danger and his sense of helplessness were tearing apart his studied calmness. He walked quickly back to the room. He put on his pullover and his runners, then stuck the Webley in the rear of his waistband. He was pulling on his jacket when she woke. He watched her quickly sit up as he fastened the bottom of his jacket and zipped it to his throat.
Her voice was alarmed.
“Where are you going? What are you doing?”
“We’re stopping, or slowing. I don’t know which and I don’t like it. I was meant to be well on the way to France by now. We’re not. We’re somewhere in Irish waters near the fuckin’ coast. I’m going to see what your friend is up to.”
“Steven!”
Her voice shook on the high note. He had begun to move to the door, but the urgency and suddenness of her call stopped him and he turned to look at her.
She rose fast from the big bed, pulling on her gown and closing it in front. Her face was earnest, her actions eager with intensity. She stepped in front of him. There was no smile now.
“No! Don’t go up there. Please! Please!”
She looked at him and placed her fingers tightly on his arm. She gathered the light, loose gown close to her breasts, covering herself as if clothing would enhance the seriousness of her words.
Cullen’s mind was open. He had never deluded himself that she did not know what was going on. Now he prepared himself for what could be a shock.
“Why?”
She still held his arm. With her other hand she reached to his shoulder, touching it.
“There is nothing you can do. There is a decision already taken. Whatever chance you have of saving yourself down here, following Marcel
’s requests, doing what he wants, you will have little or none if you go up and face him. Marcel is angry and has been drinking. He is liable to do anything when he is like this. Please, you understand?”
“Understand what?”
He shook his arm free, gripped her upper arm in his hand and caught the wrist near his shoulder in a violent snatch.
“What are you talking about?”
He waited only a moment before he went on, long enough for her to wince and to see that she did know something he didn’t. An idea came to him, filling him with a hard anger and causing him to squeeze her arm and wrist even harder. She flinched. He squeezed again and shook her roughly.
“You know what this is all about, don’t you?”
He kept his voice low, but couldn’t keep the hardness out of it.
Her head bobbed with the shaking, throwing her hair around her face.
“Stop it!” she shouted. “You’re hurting me!”
“What do you know? Tell me!”
He pulled her to him, swinging his arm behind him so that she pressed against him. His hand flew from her upper arm and grabbed a hank of the tousled hair at the back of her head. He hauled down hard, pulling her head back so that her face was turned directly upward.
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