Passage by Night (1987)

by Jack Higgins

  'I'll be looking forward to it.'

  The American moved away through the crowd and Manning put the money in his hip pocket and ordered a large rum. As he lit another cigarette, the drum rolled and the dance floor cleared at once. The lights dimmed and a spot picked out the archway beside the band.

  When Maria Salas stepped through the bead curtain, there was a sudden general sigh as if the crowd had caught its breath. She was wearing black leather riding pants, a white silk shirt knotted at her waist and a black Cordoban hat tilted at an angle, shading her face.

  For a moment she stood there as if waiting for something and her fingers gently stroked the guitar and she started to sing.

  She didn't really have a voice and yet there was something there, a touch of the night perhaps, a dying fall that caught at the back of the throat. Probably no more than half a dozen people in the room understood what she was singing about, but it didn't matter.

  Manning remembered their first meeting that hot July afternoon. The fishing boat from Cuba packed with refugees, drifting helplessly in the gulf. It had been her tremendous quality of repose, of tranquillity almost, in spite of the situation, that had first attracted him.

  It was not that she was beautiful. Her skin was olive-hued, the blue-black hair tied with a scarlet ribbon and yet, in that dramatic costume, every other woman in the room faded into insignificance.

  As her song died away, there was a moment of breathless stillness followed by a roar of applause. She took it like a torero in the plaza at Mexico City, hat extended in her right hand, feet together. As Manning ordered another rum, she launched into a flamenco, dancing as she sang, stamping her high-heeled Spanish boots. She finished on a harsh, strident note that was infinitely exciting.

  This time the applause was prolonged. She vanished through the bead curtain and returned to stand stiffly, heels together, turning slowly, her gaze travelling over the whole crowd. As her eyes met Manning's, he raised his glass and she nodded slightly. She gave them one more song and at the end danced out through the bead curtain still singing, her voice dying away into the distance.

  The calypso band struck up another goombay and Manning pushed his way through the crowd and went into the casino. As yet it was early and business was slack. One or two people stood at the roulette table, but the blackjack dealer was playing patience to kill the time until the rush started.

  Kurt Viner, the owner of the Caravel, was sitting at a desk in the far corner checking the previous night's takings, his manager hovering at his shoulder. A thin, greying German of fifty or so, he wore his white dinner jacket with a touch of aristocratic elegance.

  As Manning entered the room, he looked up and waved. 'Harry, how goes it?'

  Manning took the two hundred and fifty dollars Morrison had given him and dropped them on the desk. 'A little something on account. I've been letting the tab run away with me lately.'

  Viner got to his feet and nodded to the manager. 'Credit Mr Manning's account. If you want me I'll be in the office.' He turned to Manning. 'Let's have a drink, Harry. Away from the noise.'

  He crossed the green baize door in the corner and Manning followed him through. The room was beautifully furnished in contemporary Swedish style, the walls of natural wood panels alternating with handmade silk paper. A small bar curved out from the corner beside the window and Manning sat on one of the stools while Viner went behind.

  'Morrison must be a good client. What's he do for a living?'

  'Real estate or something like that,' Manning said. 'Does it matter? They're all the same. Paunchy, middle-aged businessmen with too much money looking for excitement. The first thing they do when they get here is unpack, dress like something out of Hemingway, come down to the wharf and expect to have a tuna handed to them on a platter.'

  'For which they pay handsomely, remember,' Viner said. 'And in dollars. Such a useful currency these days.'

  'A fact of which I'm duly grateful.'

  'You don't like Morrison, then?'

  'Thanks to him I lost a harpoon gun, but he insisted on paying for it and he knows I'm insured. I suppose he's better than most.'

  'He must be. Two hundred and fifty dollars is a fair day's pay by any standards.' Viner hesitated and then said slowly, 'You know, your credit's always good here, Harry, but it's quite obvious you aren't even making a living at the moment.'

  'Have you got a better suggestion?'

  The German refilled his glass and said slowly, 'You go to Miami occasionally, don't you?'

  Manning nodded. 'So what?'

  'The Grace Abounding is a good-sized boat. You could carry passengers.'

  Manning frowned. 'You mean Cuban refugees? Illegal immigrants? Have you any idea what the penalties are?'

  'The rewards could be high.'

  'You're telling me. Five years in jail. That coast is alive with small naval craft, especially since the Cuban crisis. What's your interest, anyway? You don't need that kind of money.'

  'You could say I have an affinity for refugees. I was one myself for several years after the war.' Viner smiled. 'Think it over, Harry. The offer is still open.'

  Manning emptied his glass and stood up. 'Thanks all the same, but things aren't quite that tough. See you later.'

  He left the room and went through the casino into the bar. For a moment he hesitated and then went out into the foyer past the reception desk and mounted the stairs to the first floor.

  He was immediately conscious of the quiet. He passed along the broad carpeted corridor and somewhere a woman laughed, the sound of it curiously remote. The music from below might have come from another world.

  He opened the door at the end of the corridor and went in. The room was a place of shadows, one shaded lamp standing on a small table in the centre. The French windows stood open to the terrace, the curtain lifting slightly in the wind as he crossed the room.

  She was sitting in the darkness in an old wicker chair, a robe wrapped closely about her against the chill of the night air.

  'Hello, Harry!' she said softly.

  He gave her a cigarette. As the match flared in his cupped hand, she leaned forward, the lines of her face thrown sharply into relief, the eyes dark pools.

  'What kind of day have you had?'

  'No worse than usual. It's a great life if you don't weaken.'

  He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice and she shook her head. 'You can't go on like this, Harry, brooding about the past. You had a thriving business once in Havana, but you lost it. Why can't you accept that instead of living from day to day hoping for some miracle to give it back to you.'

  'Nobody's having to support me,' he said. 'I'm making a living.'

  'Only just.' There was an edge of anger in her voice. 'What kind of a life is this for a man like you? You started in Havana with nothing. Why can't you start again?'

  'Maybe I'm tired,' he said. 'I'm fifteen years older, remember. I've just been talking to Viner. He wants me to start running refugees into Florida. A quick passage by night and no questions asked.'

  She leaned forward in alarm. 'You didn't accept?'

  'Don't worry,' he said. 'I've still got that much sense left.' He took the envelope from his shirt pocket and dropped it onto her lap. 'A letter from your mother.'

  She got to her feet with a slight exclamation and hurried into the bedroom. He watched her feverishly tear open the envelope in the light of the lamp and turned away, leaning on the rail.

  After a while she came back outside and stood beside him. 'How was Sanchez?'

  'Seemed pretty fit to me.'

  'Did he say anything?'

  He looked down, trying to gauge the expression in her eyes, but her face was in shadow. 'Only that two of your people were murdered in Honduras last week. He told me to tell you to watch out. That Castro has a long arm.'

  'Then he should take care,' she said simply. 'He might lose his hand.'

  Manning frowned. 'Are you mixed up in anything, Maria? Anything I should kn
ow about?'

  She smiled. 'Nothing for you to worry about, Harry. Nothing at all.'

  Manning turned and leaned against the rail again and she stood beside him so that his shoulder touched hers lightly each time she stirred. The wind was freshening off the water and a light mist rolled across the harbour. He felt at peace and restless, happy and discontented, all at the same time. It had been a bad day and the past came too easily to mind. He sighed and straightened.

  She looked up, her face a white blur in the darkness. 'What are you thinking about?'

  'Life!' he said. 'How you can never be sure about anything. Not really.'

  She moved close, her hands gripping his lapels tightly, and he held her in his arms. Out beyond the point, the sea was beginning to lift into whitecaps.

  'Storm before morning,' he said.

  She looked out to sea and shivered. 'Let's go inside, Harry. My next show's at eleven. That's three hours away.'

  She gently pulled herself free and went in. For a moment, he stayed there, looking out to sea and then a small wind moaned eerily as it slid over the rooftop, filling him with a vague, irrational unease. He turned quickly and followed her.

  He lay there, caught between the shadowy lines of sleep and waking for quite some time, aware that the wind had strengthened and somewhere far out to sea a single clap of thunder echoed hollowly.

  After a while, he stretched out a hand and realized that he was alone. He threw back the bedclothes and reached for his watch. It was just after eleven. For a moment, he sat there frowning and then remembered that it was Friday and she had a late show. She'd obviously decided not to waken him.

  He got to his feet, padded across the bathroom and turned on the shower. The cold stinging lances of water invigorated him and by the time he was dressed his body was glowing and alive.

  It was eleven-thirty when he went downstairs and the wind was rattling the shutters of the windows along the terrace. There were still a few people in the casino, but the bar was strangely deserted.

  Morrison was sitting on a high stool, drinking a gin sling and leafing through an old yachting magazine. He looked up and smiled. 'Hello there. How about a drink?'

  Manning looked down at the deserted dance floor with a frown. 'What's happening around here? When did the show finish?'

  'There wasn't a late show tonight,' Morrison said and a sudden gust of wind rattled the front of the building. 'Looks like we're in for a blow.'

  As Manning started to turn, that vague, irrational unease moving inside him again, Viner came in from the casino carrying a cash box. As he started to go behind the bar, Manning caught him by the arm.

  'What the hell's going on here? Maria told me she had another show at eleven. Where is she?'

  Viner put the cash box down on the bar and sighed heavily. 'Maybe you'd better have a drink, Harry.'

  Before Manning could reply, a cry sounded outside and the front door burst open, a gust of wind sending it crashing back against the wall.

  The man who staggered in had been running hard and his oilskin coat streamed water. He grabbed for the edge of the bar and leaned against it, moaning softly.

  He was an old deep-sea fisherman called Saunders who ran a charter boat during the season. Viner went behind the bar, poured rum into a glass and pushed it across.

  'Drink that and pull yourself together. What's happened?'

  'Jimmy Walker's gone down in the sea in that old plane of his.' Saunders swallowed some of the rum and coughed. 'I was about two miles out close by Blackstone Reef. There's a sea like a millrace running out there.'

  'Never mind that,' Manning said. 'What happened?'

  'Search me. There was one hell of a bang. When I looked up, she fell into the water like a stone.'

  'Didn't you go back to help?' Morrison demanded.

  'In my old tub? Mister, the way that sea's running I'd all I could do to get in here in one piece. I figured the best thing to do was to get some help - real help.'

  There was a sudden crash as Viner dropped the rum bottle he was holding. He swayed slightly, his face very white, and steadied himself against the bar.

  'For God's sake, pull yourself together,' Manning told him. 'Grab a coat and let's get out of here.'

  'But you don't understand, Harry,' Viner said. 'Maria was on that plane.'

  Manning stood there gazing at him, the coldness flooding through him. At that moment, the heavens opened with a clap of thunder and rain started to rattle against the roof.

  3

  Dark Waters

  It was raining hard as the Grace Abounding left the shelter of the harbour and turned out to sea. Manning opened the throttle wide and she lifted to meet the waves with a surge of power that left Joe Howard in his old police launch far behind.

  Manning felt strangely calm, pushing all other possibilities from his mind except the one that they would get there in time to do some good. He fumbled for a cigarette and Morrison handed him one quickly and offered a light.

  'What kind of a chance have they got?'

  'Pretty good,' Manning said. 'It'll take a lot to sink that old Walrus and Jimmy carries a full complement of dinghies and so on in case of ditching. He was strict about things like that. Came from his R.A.F. training, I suppose.'

  'What about the reef where they came down?'

  The one thing I'm worried about.'

  Old Saunders removed his pipe and nodded. 'The sea can play strange tricks out there when the weather gets rough.'

  As the Grace Abounding rose to the crest of a wave, a sudden squall hit her broadside and the whole boat shuddered and slid sideways into the valley below.

  Morrison and Saunders were thrown violently to one side and Manning grabbed for the wheel as it spun and brought her round in time to meet the next wave as it lifted to meet them.

  In the light from the binnacle, Morrison looked sick and frightened. 'Does that happen often?'

  'Usually not more than once.' Manning said dryly.

  The door of the saloon opened, light flooded out, and Seth came up the companionway carrying a jug of tea and a mug. 'Man, but there's a sea running tonight.'

  'You can say that again,' Morrison told him. 'How's Viner?'

  'Sick to his stomach as usual. We might as well have left him on dry land.'

  Manning swallowed some of the scalding tea and passed the mug to Saunders. The red and green navigation lights cast a strange glow over the deck and beyond, nothing existed except the sea and the night.

  A few moments later, it stopped raining and the moon appeared in a patch of clear sky between clouds that moved smoothly across the sky. The wind died and the squall was over as suddenly as it had begun.

  In the moonlight, the sea stretched to the horizon and the Grace Abounding slid across great heaving swells smoothly, her prow biting into the water. Above the roar of the engine, a hollow booming sounded and a white fountain of water lifted fifty feet into the night.

  'What in hell was that?' Morrison demanded in alarm.

  'A blow-hole,' Saunders said. 'Always happens in bad weather. The reef's hollow underneath.'

  Conversation died as they approached. Waves rolled in to dash upon the great, jagged black rampart that towered thirty feet above the sea. An undertow sucked at them as Manning started to turn to port and there was a hollow slapping sound against the keel of the boat. At one side, the water broke into spray, foaming high into the air, while all around, white patches appeared as jagged rocks showed through.

  As he throttled down, the steering became increasingly sluggish and they drifted in towards a great green slab of rock. Manning and Seth heaved on the wheel together and they were round the southern tip of the reef and into the comparative shelter of the lee side.

  The sea stretched away into the night, surrounding rocks and cays clearly visible in the bright moonlight. There was no sign of the Walrus. Seth opened the front window and Manning switched on the spot and turned it slowly, the beam splaying across the water towards the reef.


  Saunders called out excitedly and pointed. Caught in the light of the beam was a section of silver fuselage. Seth ran to the stern to throw out the anchor and Manning switched off the engine. Morrison and Saunders had gone up on deck. As Manning followed, the American gave a cry of horror.

  Manning climbed on top of the wheelhouse and turned the spot and his stomach heaved. In the harsh white light, the sea boiled as dozens of sharks plunged and fought like mad dogs over a piece of meat. One great ugly head lifted out of the water, a human arm clamped between its teeth, before plunging down to escape the attentions of three others.

  Manning jumped to the deck and ran into the cabin. When he came back he was carrying a Garand automatic carbine. He stood at the rail, bitter, impotent anger rising inside him, and pumped round after round into the gleaming bodies.

  It was all to no purpose. The sea boiled over in a white cauldron as those who struggled in their death agony, thrashing the water in fury, became in turn the victims.

  Blood fountained up, lumps of raw flesh drifted on top of the water, the sharks twisted and turned until the whole thing was like something out of a terrible nightmare and the sea itself seemed to cry out in agony.

  As the last shot echoed flatly across the water, Manning threw the useless carbine to the deck and stumbled below. For a little while, the others stood there looking helplessly at each other and then Seth went into the wheelhouse and turned off the spot.

  Manning sat at the table in the saloon smoking a cigarette, an empty glass in front of him. He reached for the bottle and the door opened and Viner came in. He closed it quickly and slumped down in the opposite chair. His hair was soaked by the rain and he looked very pale.

  'What's it like out there?' Manning said calmly. 'Have they finished yet?'

  Viner shook his head and buried his face in his hands. Manning half-filled his glass with rum and pushed it across.

  'Drink some of that. You'll feel better.'

  Viner shook his head. 'I don't think so. I'd rather have a cigarette.'

  Manning gave him one and the German lit it carefully, coughing as the smoke caught at the back of his throat. It was very quiet there in the saloon with the spray spattering lightly against the windows.