A Woman Involved

by John Gordon Davis

  Morgan said, ‘Okay, Mr King, I’m sorry but it looks like we’re going to do this the hard way.’ He pulled out the gun.

  He felt shaky. It was the first time he had ever used a gun unlawfully. ‘Start your engines and pull up your anchor, please.’

  The Kingfisher chugged out of the harbour, into the small swells. Big King sat at the helm, big and sweaty, with a face like thunder. Morgan stood behind him. This had been so easy so far he desperately regretted not having brought Anna with him in the first place. He said: ‘Turn along the coast. Top speed.’

  Big King said, ‘Jesus, you could have got a dozen guys to do this voluntary. What happens up the coast?’

  ‘You’re going to anchor while I fetch my wife.’ He could see Big King’s mind working on that one. ‘I’m going to tie you up while I do that, Mr King. I’m sorry to have to do this. I wish you were doing it voluntarily.’

  Big King growled, ‘Okay, so I’ll do it voluntary.’

  ‘Too late, Mr King, I don’t trust you now.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Big King said. ‘The pot calling the kettle black.’

  Morgan smiled, despite himself. It seemed the first time he had smiled in years.

  The trees were silhouetted against the lamplights on the coast road, the houses twinkling between them. But the beach looked empty. When they were three hundred yards offshore, Morgan said: ‘Okay, douse your lights. Then drop the anchor.’

  Big King put the engines into neutral. ‘Why don’t you drop the fuckin’ anchor? …’ He clambered along the gunnel, to the bows. He let the anchor go, with a splash. He came clambering back sullenly. ‘Now what, Admiral?’

  ‘Lie down, please. On your stomach.’

  Big King muttered, ‘You not one of those, too, are you?’ But he lowered himself.

  ‘Hands together behind your back, please.’ Big King groaned and obeyed. Morgan pocketed the pistol. ‘Now, if you try anything funny it’s going to hurt. You, not me.’

  He lashed Big King’s wrists together feverishly, then ran the rope down to his ankles. He lashed them together. Big King said bitterly, ‘Don’t cut the rope, it’s good rope.’

  Morgan hurried to the locker, and snatched out a flag. It was American.

  ‘Open wide.’

  ‘Look,’ Big King moaned. ‘I won’t holler. Nobody’ll hear me, anyways.’

  ‘Open.’

  ‘Oh, shit …’

  Morgan bound the gag around Big King’s bristly mouth.

  He turned and hurried to the stern. He pulled the dinghy alongside and clambered down into it. He untied the painter, grabbed the oars and started rowing hard.

  He feverishly pulled the dinghy up onto the sand. The dark beach seemed deserted.

  He ran through the palms. To the road at the side of the consular residence. There was nobody to be seen. He took a run at the wall, and swung himself up.

  He dropped into the dark garden below. He crouched, panting, peering.

  There was no light in the consul’s study. He slipped through the trees, down the side of the house. His heart was knocking. He came opposite Anna’s window. He took a pebble out of his pocket. He carefully threw it against the window.

  She appeared immediately, her face white. She opened the window. She swung her leg over the sill, then the other, clutching the bag. For a moment she sat, then she jumped.

  She hit the grass, her knees bent, and she rolled. She scrambled up and ran into the darkness of the trees. Morgan grabbed her hand.

  He leant against the wall, and laced his hands together. She put her foot into his hands, and she sprang. She clambered up on top of the wall; then she disappeared. Morgan jumped, and grabbed the top. He swung his leg up, and rolled over.

  ‘Walk naturally.’

  He gripped her hand. It was clammy. She walked erect, her heart pounding, looking to neither left nor right. Ahead were the palms of the beach.

  ‘Now run!’

  They ran through the dark palms. They came out onto the beach, panting. Out there was the unlit shape of the Kingfisher. They ran along the beach, to the dinghy. Morgan grabbed the painter and went splashing out into the sea.

  ‘Jump in.’

  She splashed out to it, and clambered in. He climbed aboard, snatched up the oars and started to row.

  She clambered shakily aboard the launch. Big King glowered at her from his horizontal position, bulging-eyed.

  Morgan hurried to the wheel and started the engines. His hands were trembly. Then he clambered up to the bows. He heaved up the anchor, hand over hand. He lashed it down then came scrambling back to the wheelhouse. He put the engines into gear and opened the throttles. The boat eased forward, doem – doem – doem.

  ‘Take the wheel.’

  She took it. Her face was gaunt in the glow of the instrument panel. Morgan snatched up a chart, and looked at it. Then grabbed the parallel rulers. He marked off a course for Venezuela.

  ‘Three-zero-five.’

  He took back the helm and swung the boat onto the course. Then gave the helm back to her.

  He looked behind, at the land. His mouth was dry.

  There was not a sign of movement. He sighed out. They had made it . . . For a moment he felt euphoric. He turned and went back to Big King.

  He squatted beside him. ‘Now, Mr King, are we going to be friends?’

  Big King gargled into his gag and rolled his eye at him.

  Morgan said: ‘That’s Mrs Smithers. She doesn’t like bad language. Or bloodshed. Now, I’m going to untie you, Mr King. But you must be polite.’

  Big King looked at him murderously and growled something through his stars and stripes.

  ‘Or do I leave you tied up, Mr King?’

  Big King groaned and closed his eyes.

  ‘Okay,’ Morgan said. ‘But first I must find your gun.’

  He clambered down the hatch to the accommodation. He started in the obvious places.

  Five minutes later he had found an FN rifle and a 12 bore shotgun, and the ammunition. He locked the guns in the forward cabin. He took the ammunition with him, up to the helm. He said to Anna:

  ‘Untie his hands. Let him untie his own feet.’

  Anna went to Big King. She knelt and wrestled the knot undone. She stood up, and came back to Morgan.

  Big King wrestled his hands free. He sat up with a groan, flexing his hands. Then his big fingers wrestled loose the knot of his gag. He spat out the stars and stripes. He sat there, flexing his jaw.

  ‘You sonofabitch …’

  Morgan picked up Anna’s bag and placed it at Big King’s feet. ‘Search it. For drugs.’

  Big King scowled: then rummaged through the bag. He shoved it aside. ‘So what? I can’t look in the other place, can I?’ He started untying his feet.

  ‘Where?’ Anna demanded.

  Big King suddenly looked embarrassed. ‘Ask your boyfriend,’ he muttered. He untied his feet, grunting. He sat there, massaging his big ankles.

  Morgan said, ‘Get him a drink. What have you got, Mr King?’

  ‘Rum,’ Big King growled. ‘Straight,’ he added.

  ‘And the same for us,’ Morgan said. ‘And now will you please take the helm, Mr King?’

  ‘And will you please please please for Christ’s sake quit calling me Mr King?’

  He lumbered over to the helm and snatched it. He looked at the compass, then looked at the receding shore lights. ‘Hey! – we’re going the wrong way for Saint Vincent’s!’

  ‘We’re going to Venezuela, Mr King.’

  Big King stared at him. He whispered:

  ‘You’re gonna load this ship up with cocaine and run it back up the islands to Miami … You’re going to kill me and use my ship for one drug run?’

  ‘If I was going to kill you, why did I untie you?’

  Big King glared. ‘What happens when we get to Venezuela?’

  ‘Mrs Smithers and I get off. You do what you like.’

  Big King said slowly:

  ‘Pir
ates, Mister Smithers …’ He pointed west with a fat, gnarled finger. ‘Those waters are full of pirates! They board you, they murder you, they steal your boat, use it for one drug run up to Miami, then sink the boat to destroy the goddam evidence! Then start again …’

  ‘Mr King, I am the pirate, remember.’

  Anna came up the hatch, with three glasses of dark rum. She put one in front of Big King. Morgan turned, and sat down at the dining table behind him. Anna slumped down beside him. She looked aft at the sea. Morgan said: ‘Nothing’s following us.’

  He dragged his hands down his face. They were still trembly.

  Anna took a mouthful of rum, threw back her head, and swallowed. It burned down into her gut, and she shuddered.

  She took his hand, and squeezed it hard.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  15

  They saw only some distant fishing craft all night. Before dawn the Kingfisher dropped anchor two hundred yards off the black, jungled coast of Venezuela.

  It was humid, oily hot. A mile away the lights of Garrucha twinkled. Anna climbed down into the dinghy. Big King followed. Morgan climbed in, untied the painter and shoved off. Big King took up the oars and started rowing.

  The dinghy crunched onto the beach and Morgan and Anna climbed out.

  ‘Well,’ Morgan said, ‘many thanks, Mr King.’

  ‘Oh, a pleasure,’ Big King glowered, ‘an absolute pleasure. Any time.’

  ‘I’ll send you a cheque for a thousand dollars to cover expenses and to compensate for the loss of your charter party. Care of the Heron Bar. I’m afraid I need all the cash I’ve got right now.’

  ‘Oh, sure. Send me a Get Well card, too.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr King,’ Anna said, ‘and thank you.’

  ‘Oh sure,’ Big King said. ‘And will you do something for me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you. But if you ever do, will you please please please not call me Mr King?’

  ‘What do we call you, then?’

  ‘I’m hoping you’ll never have to call me any goddam thing.’

  ‘What name do I put on the cheque?’ Morgan said.

  Big King looked at him. ‘You really gonna send me a cheque?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Big King looked away. He dug the oars into the water.

  ‘Morris Longbottom,’ he muttered.

  Local knowledge, that’s what he desperately needed.

  Big King had told him there was a railway station in Garrucha. There must also be a bus station. The port was only for fishing boats. There was no airport. But the jungle was full of airstrips used by smugglers for flipping drugs out of the country, Big King had said.

  They walked fast along the beach towards the town. By now the British and the Yanks would have their people throughout the Caribbean looking for them. And so would the Russians.

  In the sunrise they climbed up a rocky path, onto the road leading into Garrucha.

  The town was not yet awake. They walked through the shacks on the outskirts. Then they were entering town. The shops were still shut. A woman in black was mopping the pavement. Down sidestreets, they could glimpse the harbour, fishing boats, nets. Ahead was a plaza, silent in the early morning.

  It was lined with old buildings. On the opposite side of the square, a man was wiping down tables outside a café. They walked in and sat down in a far corner. The barman called, ‘Sí?’

  Anna ordered coffee and brandy.

  The drinks came. Morgan swallowed his brandy, in one go. Anna did the same, and shuddered. She gave a bleak smile. Morgan, held up two fingers at the barman and called:

  ‘Coñac, por favor.’

  They sipped the coffee. It was good and strong. He sat there, feeling the balm of it. He was about to speak, and she put her hand on his. She said:

  ‘Thank you. From my heart. For what you’ve done.’

  ‘Because I love you,’ he said.

  She closed her eyes and squeezed his hand. ‘But you also did it because you believe it morally right.’

  He smiled. ‘All right …’ He hunched forward on the table. ‘We’re in South America. Now tell me where we go from here.’

  She held his hand across the table.

  ‘New York,’ she said. ‘Manhattan.’

  He was relieved. ‘Both safety-deposit boxes recorded on the page you tore out of the notebook are in New York?’

  She shook her head. ‘Only one. But that’s the most likely.’

  ‘And where is the other box?’

  ‘Switzerland.’

  He stroked his eyebrow. Opposite sides of the world.

  ‘Why do you think New York is the most likely place?’

  ‘Because the night Max and I had the drunken row – he said he had the evidence in New York. In very safe custody, were his words. And he had no other bank in New York that I know of. And no New York bank is listed in his will. Only in the notebook.’

  ‘What did the note say?’

  ‘Just the box number, plus the letters H.K.S.B. Which stand for Hongkong and Shanghai Bank. That safety-deposit box is in our joint names. We opened it together last year. He’d bought me some expensive jewellery, he was on one of his spending sprees. We had to go up-state for a week. So he rented a deposit box for all this loot.’

  ‘In your joint names? So you can walk into the bank and open that box?’

  ‘Yes. I never did it. Max got the jewellery out for me a week later. But I remember he rented it for one year.’

  Morgan sat back. Relief. ‘Well, this is easy. We just go to the bank and you open the box. Then get a lawyer. No lies, no forged signatures.’

  He unzipped her bag, and pulled out the list he had made of all entries and exits from Max’s three passports. He studied it.

  ‘You had your drunken row on your birthday, the twentieth of June last year. Two days before that, on the eighteenth, God’s Banker was found hanging in London. The same day Max arrived in London. The same day he flew to New York. The next day he flew back to you in Grenada. The day after that was your birthday.’ He thought he was getting somewhere. ‘When Max had this outburst did he mention God’s Banker being hanged? As proof that he had the evidence?’

  ‘No. I’ve told you that already.’

  He did not believe her. He consulted the list again.

  ‘The next day he went to Switzerland. Via New York.’ He tapped the list. ‘He may have gone to New York to get the microfilm out of the deposit box – because you had access to it. And gone to Switzerland to put it in a new box.’

  ‘But we have to check out New York.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He hesitated; then turned her face towards him. ‘Anna? It’s time you told me what’s on this microfilm.’

  Her exhausted eyes were the most beautiful he had ever seen. She said:

  ‘Jack? … Darling Jack. I do trust you. But I’m not going to tell you. Because what you don’t know you cannot be made to tell.’

  He sat back wearily. All right, that would have to wait, he was too tired to argue with her now. He said:

  ‘We must dye your hair. And buy some clothes. The British know what we’re wearing.’

  She nodded, eyes pressed closed. ‘And then?’

  He said, ‘We can’t go to America from Caracas airport. Or any airport. They’ll be watching for us at obvious places like that.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I haven’t got a passport. Except Max’s. I can change his photograph for mine. But they’ll be watching for the name of Hapsburg.’

  The waiter came with two more steaming coffees. He spoke something in Spanish and Anna translated: ‘You want anything to eat?’

  He couldn’t think of eating. ‘No, you have something.’

  She shook her head. The waiter went away. She said: ‘We could buy forged passports in Caracas.’

  ‘But that’ll take time. And time’s our problem.’ He sighed. ‘We must assume that every available British, American and KGB agent in the Caribbean area
is looking for us in the obvious places. Therefore, we’ve got to get out without going through immigration formalities anywhere.’

  She massaged her forehead. ‘So, we must charter an aeroplane.’

  ‘But where? Go to a flying club? By now the Brits and Yanks will have places like that covered too. And how do you persuade the guy to charter you his aeroplane without going through normal immigration formalities?’

  ‘With money. We’re in South America, remember.’

  He said: ‘Big King put me onto a guy in this town called José Luis.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘José Luis, the local Mr Big if you want to buy a ton of cocaine. He’s also into “wet-backs”, smuggling people illegally into the States to work. When it comes to anything in this town, José Luis is your man.’

  ‘Lord – we can’t go in an aircraft that’s running drugs.’

  ‘Of course not. We’re in enough difficulty without having the Drug Enforcement Agency on our backs. No, we either charter an aircraft to ourselves through José Luis, or go with a bunch of wet-backs.’

  She stroked her eyebrows worriedly. ‘How do we find this guy?’

  ‘Big King says we ask at a joint called Bar García.’

  ‘And if he won’t help us?’

  ‘Then we take a train to Caracas. And start again.’

  She pressed her eyebrows. ‘Maybe we should do that first. Instead of flirting with drug runners?’

  ‘Time. In Caracas we’d have to start from scratch. Asking round the underworld. Attracting attention. Here, at least we know of José Luis.’

  She sighed. ‘Oh God, what have I got you into?’

  ‘So far it’s been plain sailing. A laugh-a-minute. But if it isn’t in New York? Then, it’s Switzerland. We won’t be able to do it without false passports. And competent people helping us.’

  ‘Like who?’

  He took a breath. ‘You’ve got to get a very respectable lawyer. And get your story down on affidavit.’ He held up a hand to silence her. ‘As much as you need to tell. So that if we’re caught, we’ve got somebody who can leap into action on our behalf. Habeas corpus, or whatever it’s called. Lawyers are bound to secrecy, Anna –’

  ‘Jack, I’m not telling this story to any lawyer until I absolutely have to. Because although the lawyer himself may treat it as confidential, what about his secretary who types it – how do we know what her security-rating is?’