The Mark of Cain

by William J. Coughlin

  Mrs. Hamilton shook her head. “No, Helga.” She looked up at the girl. “Have you done the grocery shopping?”

  “No, mum. I was planning to do it tomorrow.”

  “Do it now, will you? Mr. Cain and I have some very important business, and I don’t wish to be disturbed for a while.”

  The girl nodded, although her eyes looked puzzled. “Yes, of course.” She quickly left the room.

  They sat side by side without speaking. Cain continued to flip through the pictures as he sipped at his drink. They heard the sound of the outer door closing as the maid left.

  Mrs. Hamilton stood up and walked to the wide windows, her back to Cain. “Are you a lonely man, Cain?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Do you have a wife, or a girl friend?”

  He paused for a moment and then spoke. “No, Mrs. Hamilton.”

  “I know all about lonely,” she said softly. Then she turned to face him. “And I know about you. The company has a complete file on you. You’re a dangerous man.”

  He said nothing as he took another sip at his drink. He kept his eyes on hers.

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Dangerous. They say you are a killer.”

  “I lead a dangerous life,” he admitted quietly.

  “And lonely?”

  He nodded.

  She looked at him, her large eyes so soft he wondered if they would turn to tears.

  “I’m lonely too, Cain,” she said, a soft catch in her voice. “Very lonely.” She took a step toward him, letting the robe fall to the floor. As he had suspected, she wore nothing underneath the robe. He put down his glass and held his hands out to her.

  THREE

  “You better not get drunk. Cain won’t like it.” Soldier’s face was hidden in the shadow of his wide straw hat.

  The black man’s eyes peered over the top of his glass. “You’re getting nervous, Soldier,” he said. “Cain only cares if you can do your job. It makes no difference to him if you’re drunk or sober, if you can still do your thing.”

  The older man’s massive neck muscles rippled. “You drink too much, Slick. You’ll ruin your liver if you don’t watch out.”

  Slick laughed, the sound rising above the beat of the waves on the beach below them. Several customers in the small outdoor café turned to look at him. Slick ignored them. “Jesus, my liver is the last thing I’m going to worry about. Did Harry worry about his liver? Or did Erick?”

  “Do their deaths still bother you?” Soldier asked.

  The soft breeze stirred the palm trees above them. “Yeah, they bother me. Harry was a nice guy, and Erick was my friend.”

  Soldier picked at his teeth with a broken toothpick. “Cain had to do it. I told you that. The man was dying. There was no other choice.”

  Slick gulped his drink, his face stiff, his eyes angry. “I would have got him out. I would have carried him on my back.”

  “You are drinking too much.”

  Slick’s eyes narrowed. “Lay off. I don’t need a mother.”

  The German snorted, his face suddenly split into a wide grin. “Son of a bitch, if I was your mother, Slick, I’d have myself spayed.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “The trouble with you, my friend, is that you need action. When a man just sits around with nothing to do but think, it can be very bad. As soon as Cain arrives and we go after those people, you will feel much better.”

  The black man motioned to a bored waiter, indicating he was ready for another drink. “Well, you may be right. Anyway it has to be better than sitting around this dump.”

  “Ha!” Soldier cocked his head to one side in amusement. “Slick, I worry about you. Take life as it comes. Here we are, sitting on a beautiful tropical island in the middle of the blue Caribbean, and you are unhappy. There is many a businessman slaving away, cheating customers and friends, just to pay for what we are getting free.”

  “Free, eh?”

  “So, in a little while we have to go to work.” Soldier took a brief sip of his beer. “Don’t kid me. You like what we do for a living.”

  The black man scowled, but there was no real feeling in the expression.

  “I wish you had been with me in the Foreign Legion,” Soldier laughed. “You would have made a damn good Legionnaire.”

  “Shit.”

  “Hooray for war, hooray for death, hooray for the Foreign Legion.” Soldier smiled at the other man. “That’s the English translation of the Legion motto.”

  Slick’s eyes suddenly sparked with interest, like a cat about to attack a bird. “If you liked that Frog outfit so much, why did you leave?”

  “You know that story.”

  “No I don’t.”

  Soldier’s smile widened, his scarred face wrinkling into many creases. “Damn, Slick, you’re getting touchy. Don’t start something with me. I stabbed that French officer and got the hell out, you know that, so why make something out of it now?”

  “The trouble with you, Soldier, is that you …” His voice trailed off as he became alert, his hand raised for silence as he seemed to be listening.

  “What is it?”

  “A jet. Hear it?”

  Soldier fell silent, his eyes searching the clear blue sky. Then he nodded. “You have the ears of a cat.”

  They paid their bill and drove the rented jeep to the airstrip.

  The jet, one of the company’s sleek smaller planes, taxied up to them. Each side of the aircraft was decorated with the insignia of the Zinner Oil Company. The engines whined to a stop, and the rear door popped open, dropping a small set of metal steps to the ground.

  Cain, dressed like a casual tourist in sports jacket and slacks, stepped out of the aircraft carrying a full barracks bag in one hand and a large suitcase in the other.

  “It’s about time you got down here,” Slick said. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Cain ignored Slick and looked over at Soldier. “What’s the story on a boat?”

  “We’ve got it. It’s a beauty too.”

  Slick stepped past Cain and jumped into the airplane. He reappeared in a minute. “Where are they?”

  “What?” Cain asked.

  The black man stepped close to him, and Cain could smell the odor of rum. “The guns,” Slick demanded, “where are the guns?”

  “We will have them in due time. Give me a hand.”

  Soldier picked up the heavy bag as if it were no more than a small purse. Cain lugged the other bag over to the jeep.

  “There is one fly in the ointment, Cain,” Soldier said as he easily lifted the bag into the back of the jeep.

  “What’s that?”

  “The boat has a crew: a captain and one deckhand.”

  A look of annoyance passed over Cain’s face. “They know we work alone.”

  The German nodded. “I don’t know if it was really Colonel Morgan’s idea or not. Maybe he wants some of his people to keep an eye on us. But the order came from the old man himself—he signed it—so I guess we are stuck with them. They might come in very handy, Cain. It’s a big boat, very complicated, and it has a barn full of electrical stuff on it. It looks like it would take an expert to run it.”

  “Fast?” Cain asked.

  Slick grunted. “We ain’t been out in it yet, but this captain—a young guy named Johnson—says it is the fastest thing on the water for its size.”

  Cain climbed easily into the back seat of the jeep and sat down between his luggage. “Well, let’s go take a look at this miracle boat and see what we’ve gotten ourselves into this time.”

  *

  The boat’s big engines rumbled in a deep constant roar, their vibrations shaking everything within its long hull. Above, millions of glittering stars filled the night sky. The Caribbean lay like a smooth velvet sheet, the boat moving across it like a knife.

  Cain stood beside Johnson in the cabin. Johnson’s eyes were fixed on the sea before them as his hands held the
wheel on a steady course. Cain knew that the boat was a complex machine, far beyond his capabilities, and he had to admit they did need an experienced man to run it. Robert Johnson had identified himself as a regular employee of the Zinner Oil Company, and he told them he did not work for Colonel Morgan. Cain knew they would know the truth before long. But he was inclined to believe him. Johnson exhibited an ill-concealed distaste for the job, an attitude not usually found in a spy. Cain estimated Johnson’s age as mid-twenties, although he was possessed of an arrogance usually found only in older men who had mastered a trade and performed it well. He seemed to know boats and the sea and the devices that kept each at peace with the other. Soon, Cain reasoned, they would all know if the young man’s skill was real or only an illusion.

  “How far now?” Cain asked.

  “Four miles,” Johnson replied. “That is, of course, if that blip on the radar screen actually turns out to be the ship you expect.”

  Cain said nothing. The blip was in the place where they had promised him the ship would be. The blip moved closer to the core of the radar scope as they roared over the glassy night-lit sea.

  The stars and the rising moon bathed the night in a pale blue light. Far in the distance a dark spot broke the straight line of the horizon.

  “That should be it,” Johnson said, raising his voice to be heard above the rumble of the engines.

  Cain stepped to the rear cockpit and motioned to Soldier. The thickset man had been enjoying the Caribbean night seated in one of the deck-bolted fishing chairs. Now he stood up, balancing himself against the thrust of the boat before moving forward. Cain grasped him by the shoulder. “We have sighted the ship,” he said, also raising his voice. “Stand by with the searchlight. They will expect the signal.”

  Soldier said nothing but nodded and moved forward into the cabin. He grasped the gun like handle of the searchlight controls.

  “Not yet,” Johnson said.

  Soldier looked at him, puzzlement showing over his scarred craggy features.

  “We will wait until we get a bit closer. That ship might turn out to be a destroyer or a patrol boat.”

  “So?” Cain asked.

  Johnson hesitated. “I just thought you wouldn’t want anyone else to know about your … er … business, that’s all.”

  Cain glanced at Soldier but neither replied. The distant speck began to grow larger as they sped toward it. Slick came up from the sleeping quarters below. “Do you see the ship?” he asked.

  “We think we do,” Cain replied.

  The distant ship began to assume a shape. It was a small freighter, loaded with cargo and lying low in the water. Its engines were turning but with only enough power to keep the ship in place. Johnson squinted at the shadowy hull. “I know that ship. It’s the old C. E. Mason, one of the company’s cargo boats. You can signal now.”

  Soldier fingered the trigger on the searchlight control, blinking out the prearranged signal. He repeated it and waited.

  A light blinked in answer from the dark ship, sending a series of flashes over the dark water.

  “Everything is okay,” Soldier said.

  Their boat cut through the smooth sea like a bullet, and Cain wondered if Johnson was going to smash into the side of the freighter head on, but at the last moment he cut the engines, pulled the wheel, and the cruiser pulled back as if it had brakes. The cruiser hull bumped gently alongside the large steel side of the freighter. Cain was impressed by Johnson’s seamanship.

  “Okay,” Cain said. “Let’s get this over with.” Soldier and Johnson followed him out of the cabin. “Where’s your man?” Cain asked Johnson.

  “He’s below. He’ll be up in a minute. He wakes up when the engines slow down.”

  As if in response the deckhand came through the cabin, rubbing his eyes. He blinked up at the freighter looming high above them.

  “Are you people ready for your delivery?” a voice called down from above them.

  “Send it over,” Johnson replied.

  They heard the whine of a small engine as the tip of a loading crane appeared over the side of the freighter, a long box suspended in a net swung from the end of the crane.

  “Let it down slowly,” Johnson called.

  The net descended slowly until it gently deposited its burden on their deck. The men worked quickly to disengage the heavy box from the tangle of the netting.

  “Why isn’t Slick helping?” Johnson asked as he heaved against the weight of the long box.

  “He’s doing a little guard duty. I’d never want to expose all of us together in one spot like this without having at least one man standing by.”

  Johnson looked over at the cabin. Slick was partially hidden in shadow although a gun barrel was held at the ready. “This is all pretty silly, Cain. The Mason is a company ship.”

  “Percentages, that’s all it is. Slick is just playing percentages. Caution is a part of our business.”

  A look of disgust crossed Johnson’s face.

  The crane loaded three more boxes onto the open cockpit of the cruiser, and then the voice called down to them once again: “That’s all there is.”

  “Thank you,” Johnson called back.

  “Where are you bound?” Cain asked, his voice echoing against the steel of the freighter’s hull.

  “Hong Kong is our next stop.”

  “All right. Good luck,” Cain called. At least that part of his request had been carried out. Cain felt more secure knowing that for at least a week no crewman on the freighter would be in a position to tell strangers about their strange cargo delivery in the middle of a Caribbean night.

  “Good luck to you, whoever you are.” The voice from above sounded amused.

  Eddy, the deckhand, stood awkwardly at the stern of the boat, holding their hull to the larger ship with a boathook.

  “Push off, Eddy,” Johnson said, hurrying back into the cabin.

  The cruiser’s idling engines rumbled, and the boat backed away from the freighter. When it was completely clear of the large ship, Johnson pushed it into forward gear, and they roared away, leaving the dark shape of the freighter behind them.

  Johnson glanced back at the others who were busy taking apart the boxes they had carried into the cabin. Slick grinned at him as he passed by on his way to the sleeping quarters below. He carried two new machine guns and a square metal box of ammunition.

  Soldier struggled after him, burdened with a heavy-looking tubular piece of metal and three large wooden boxes, obviously full since Soldier’s large muscles strained to hold them.

  “What the hell is that?” Johnson asked.

  “A weapon.” Soldier disappeared through the hatch into the cabins below.

  Cain checked the contents of one of the boxes, nodded his approval, and then replaced the lid, indicating to Eddy that he would need help carrying it below. Then they half carried and half shoved the heavy box toward the hatchway.

  Johnson waited until they rested for a moment. “Cain, what the hell is going on?”

  “Just taking on some provisions, just a few necessities.”

  “Machine guns are necessities?”

  Cain nodded. “In a way. I don’t think we’ll need them, but it’s better to have them along than to miss them if we did get into trouble.”

  Johnson swore under his breath, then he turned to Cain. “I don’t think I’m going to want any part of this business.”

  Cain stretched, relaxing his back muscles. “Suit yourself, Johnson. You’re a company man, and this is just another job. But I don’t want to have anyone along who doesn’t want to come. We can get you another assignment if you like.”

  “I don’t like the idea of guns,” Johnson said, his voice barely audible over the sound of the engines. “What are you up to anyway?”

  Slick poked his head through the companionway.

  “Give Eddy a hand, will you, Slick.” Cain nodded toward the crate on the deck. He waited until the two men had disappeared below, then his slate-
gray eyes once again locked on Johnson’s troubled face. “We have an easy job to do,” he said, studying the boatman. “Our assignment is to trace Stewart Hamilton the Third. He is old man Zinner’s great-grandson. I told you that before, and it hasn’t changed. That’s the only thing we have to do.”

  “What the hell are you going to trace him with—bullets?”

  Cain paused a moment before replying. “According to the Navy and the Coast Guard Hamilton and his wife disappeared in an area where a number of boats have vanished. The authorities believe over thirty boats have been boarded by narcotics smugglers, the crews killed, and the boats taken. There have been no survivors; over two hundred people have just vanished. I’m told the theory is that the narcotics people kill them—men, women, and children—and feed them to the sharks. That’s why we have to have guns. We may just run into those people.”

  Johnson’s face still reflected his suspicion.

  “These are tough people,” Cain continued. “These … pirates … are not a bunch of tea dancers. There are only five of us, and this is a big, powerful, and fast boat. We might just be the kind of bait that would tempt such people.” He paused again, trying to assess the effect of his words on Johnson. “We are professionals, Johnson, and professionals need their tools. The guns and explosives are our tools.”

  “Explosives? Jesus, is that what’s in that big box?”

  “We have some grenades and a bit of plastic explosive. Slick will rig an explosive charge against the part of our hull where the weapons will be kept. In case of search or apprehension by somebody’s navy, we blow the charge and the evidence sinks into the Caribbean. Actually we might have other uses for the explosive, but since these weapons are outlawed contraband, I don’t want to be caught with them and spend a few years in some banana country jail. Understand?”

  “Cain, do you have any idea how much this boat costs?” Johnson’s words were tipped with the horror that he felt. “It cost over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. And it is my responsibility. I can’t allow you to destroy …”