They’re the —’

  ‘Wait a minute.’

  He was watching something across the water, something behind me, presumably a boat. We’d passed half a dozen lying at anchor as we’d left the shore, no more than their riding lights burning, the moonlight throwing the shadows of their masts across the surface. There had also been another vessel moving under power with lights flooding the control deck.

  I didn’t look behind me: he might be trying that one.

  ‘Roget,’ he said, ‘get lower with that thing.’

  The afterdeck wasn’t lit but the black made a sharp silhouette against the moonlit sea and the Suzuki had a substantial profile.

  ‘Coastguard?’ I asked Nicko.

  That would be nice.

  He didn’t answer, just went on watching the boat. I could hear its engine now. One of the men in the control cabin looked round, hearing it too. The waters off this coast were heavily patrolled by the US Coastguard on the watch for drug runners, Cubans and Haitians, and they could stop any vessel they weren’t happy about and ask questions.

  They were all watching the ship behind me, Nicko and the men in the cabin, and when I looked at Roget I saw that his head was turned away from me and the nerves went into the full-alert phase in that instant and the adrenaline hit the bloodstream as I worked out the distance and the two strikes that were called for, one to deal with the Suzuki and the other to the man’s throat - and then it was over and his head was turning back to watch me and I found that my breath was still blocked to power the necessary movement and my right foot was dug against the deck to push me past the inertia and get me across the deck.

  Relax.

  But Jesus Christ that was Relax, it’s over now. Deepen, calm the breathing, let the muscles go loose again. There might be another chance and more time to take it. The three other men had guns but there’d be nothing I could do on board this boat while that Suzuki was here: it could put out four shots a second and blow me overboard if that man starting firing.

  ‘Nicko.’

  The man in the cabin, the one who was watching the boat out there.

  ‘What?’ He didn’t turn, went on watching the boat.

  ‘You’ll have to get it over with before we get there.’

  Nicko didn’t answer. Presumable meaning: you’ll have to shoot those two before we make the rendezvous with the supplier.

  Nicko still silent. Fidel the Cuban had finished sluicing the deck; he was on his haunches again, his face still pale, his head back and his eyes closed. I would have said he was wishing it were over, wishing for an end to pain.

  ‘Nicko.’ The man in the cabin again.

  ‘What?’ He turned round now. ‘It’s okay, they’re just a —’

  ‘Nicko, we want you to do what you have to do before we get there. We don’t want bodies around, you listening, Nicko?’ The man at the helm said something, and the first man nodded. ‘And you’ll have to do it quietly, Nicko. No guns. There’s too much traffic out here.’

  ‘That wasn’t Coastguard, it was —’

  ‘You don’t listen, Nicko, I said there’s too much traffic out here. You do like we say or we don’t come out with you the next time, are you listening to me, Nicko?’

  Patience in his tone, spelling it out, no four-letter words thrown in for effect, just the message, listen to me, Nicko. Patience and a certain authority. He was a dealer and he was out here on business and he didn’t want anything to get in the way. He and his partner, then, the man at the helm, the dealers; Nicko the heavy, the hit man, bringing the half million or the million on board, seeing to it himself, for the others a necessary evil.

  ‘You don’t know these people,’ he said, his stomach jerking as he pushed the words out. ‘I know them. You didn’t have me, you wouldn’t be out here to meet them, the fuck are you talking about, Vicente?’

  I didn’t know if they would have started arguing if it weren’t for the fact that murder was to be done. Perhaps it worried them, even though they were used to it. I could feel the same kind of tension that develops in a prison when everyone knows that not far away there’s a man preparing a rope or a syringe or the straps on the chair and that the clock is moving towards morning.

  ‘No noise, Nicko. And do it soon, or you’ll get us in trouble out here and Mr Toufexis wouldn’t like it - have you thought of that? Think of it, Nicko.’

  The man in the cabin, Vicente, turned his back. He and the man at the helm carried guns bolstered on the left side, and Nicko was wearing his the same way. There was no one else on board except for Roget with the Suzuki and Fidel the Cuban and of course Nicko. The two men who’d brought the boat to the jetty had stayed ashore. The main problem in terms of timing was Roget, the young black: his finger was inside the guard the whole time and he was seven, eight feet distant from me.

  So I began work with that as the fulcrum.

  ‘They’re the people who employ me, Nicko.’

  ‘What?’ Turned to look at me, the small eyes squeezed almost shut, as if a wind had got up, a cold wind. The man up there, Vicente, had started to worry him.

  “The British Government,’ I said. ‘I’m in Miami on a special assignment.’

  ‘Fuck does that mean?’

  ‘It means I’ve been assigned by the Thatcher administration to represent the United Kingdom’s interest in the presidential election, under the aegis of Senator Mathieson Judd.’

  He watched me. ‘You’re full of shit, you know that?’

  ‘The thing is, Nicko, you’re getting into something very big, and you’re not aware of that. I think it’s only my duty to tell you. Everyone can make a mistake, but what worries me is that this one is going to blow you right out of the water.’

  In a moment, ‘Mistake?’

  ‘That’s right. For instance, who gave you the instructions to kill me?’

  ‘Mr Toufexis. Who else?’ More quickly than I’d expected, perhaps to shift the blame. The blame, not the guilt; there wouldn’t be any guilt, just the memory of sadistic pleasure.

  ‘Then you’ll have to tell Mr Toufexis he’s making the mistake.’

  The pink fleshy mouth became stretched slightly and there was a soft wheeze, a kind of laughter. ‘Mr Toufexis doesn’t make mistakes. Give me your wallet.’

  I thought he’d never ask. But I’m going to take a risk and trust you because I’m gullible enough to feel reassured by the Queen of England’s crest on the card you gave me. Erica Cambridge. Perhaps it would work with this man too.

  Gave him the wallet, and as he took it I moved another two inches towards Roget, the man with the big Suzuki. I had moved more than a foot closer to him in the last three minutes.

  Cash, credit cards, driving licence, taking his time.

  ‘Foreign Office. What’s that?’

  ‘You call it the State Department.’

  ‘Richard Ainsely Keyes. Right, that’s the name. So there’s no mistake.’

  ‘Not on your part, no. But I think you should telephone Mr Toufexis and tell him about my assignment for the Thatcher administration. I’m sure he’s no wish to get involved in Senator Judd’s election campaign. The Senator wouldn’t be pleased.’

  Another two inches to the left, simply as an exercise in case there was something eventually to be done.

  A green light was moving across the sea, at the starboard beam of a vessel. Nicko had seen it and stood watching it for a moment, then turned and went into the control cabin. I judged we were now three miles out, three at the least. Fidel the Cuban had said the rendezvous was to be made seven miles out, and the arithmetic was simple enough: at fifteen knots cruising speed we would be there in approximately fifteen minutes.

  No noise, Nicko. Do it soon. Do it before we get there.

  That was logical enough: there’d be other people at the rendezvous and I might get a chance to kick and scream, so forth, create confusion.

  ‘Senator Judd?’ Nicko looked up from the wallet.

  ‘The candidate for the presidency.’

  ‘Fuck are you talking about?’ He turned and went into the cabin and I watched him go to the radio unit.

  Sound of a vessel, the one moving past us to starboard, heading for port. Roget heard it too and wanted to turn round and look at it, but he was only shifting his eyes, thinking about it, and I didn’t get ready to do anything. I wasn’t close enough to him yet, and I’d have to wait until Nicko came back before I could shift a bit more to the left again. The best thing would be to get to the Suzuki and swing it down but give him time to fire a few shots. It would make a lot of noise and if the Coastguard had a patrol out here they’d come and ask questions.

  No noise, Nicko.

  Telephone to his head. I could only hear a word or two as his voice rose and lowered against the throb of the diesels, but I think he was asking to speak to a man called Joshua. Or Foster. Or of course Proctor because the vowels carried more clearly than the consonants. Perhaps Proctor.

  The immediate objective for Barracuda.

  He was holding my card up, turning it aslant to catch the light. I think I heard Foreign Office, but that could have been because I was listening for it. Then there was Mr Toufexis, and then Proctor again and then Thatcher, be it given that I was only getting snatches.

  It was really very frustrating because the executive for the mission was only a telephone number away from the objective and he was three miles out to sea with a man on one side of him with his testicles out cold and a man on the other side waiting to blow his head across the bay if he did anything wrong and a man in the cabin there with orders for his immediate execution.

  All I want, Nicko, is that telephone number, you little fat bastard, the one you’ve just called, and if I ever get you alone you’re going to tell me what it is.

  The deck rose and fell away to the slow undulations of the swell; the Miami skyline was lifted suddenly from the dark and strewn across the horizon in a cascade of diamonds, then was lost again, blotted out by the profile of the cabin. Assignment … government … janitor - no, Senator … Senator Judd, more clearly now as the man at the helm throttled the diesels back, slowing us.

  Nicko cradled the telephone and there was no more to listen to, as I asked the black, ‘Are we nearly there?’ I wanted to know how he was feeling, how confident or how nervous.

  ‘Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut, you know what I mean?’

  No reliable data. Nicko was coming back and Roget turned his head a little to look at him so I shifted my feet again, three inches this time because it wouldn’t be much longer now.

  ‘You’re full of shit.’

  Nicko, standing in front of me, the small eyes glinting.

  ‘Did you talk to Proctor himself?’

  Got a reaction: we hadn’t mentioned his name before.

  ‘There isn’t any mistake. There isn’t any assignment. You wasted my time, and I don’t like that.’

  But I’d got the answer. Only Proctor knew enough about me to know I wasn’t on an assignment for the Thatcher government in connection with Senator Judd. This man had just been speaking to the objective. I was that close.

  ‘I suggested you telephone Mr Toufexis,’ I said, ‘not Proctor.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  Perhaps I could have gone on from there, kept him talking if there’d been time, tried a few oblique questions about Monique, Kim Harvester, Erica Cambridge, 1330 Riverside Way, the yacht Contessa, to see if I could get any more information to work on, to give to Ferris, but there wasn’t a chance because the man in the cabin, Vicente, was turning round.

  ‘Hey, Nicko. You have to do it now.’

  Chapter 13 : DANCE

  This was the scene. This was the scene of the execution.

  We were moving at less than cruising speed and there was less noise from the diesels. The wake bannered from the stern across the sea towards Miami. There was a vessel a mile off, perhaps less; it was difficult to judge distances by moonlight on a reflecting surface. The vessel was marked only by its riding lights. Two or three more stood off our port quarter, farther away, one of them with lights shining on deck and from a line of portholes below. Another looked as if it had way on, and showed both red and green lights. It was heading obliquely in our direction but wouldn’t pass close, no closer than half a mile.

  Water slapped below the bows; the night was peaceful.

  The man Vicente was still turned towards us in the cabin, looking at Nicko. Fidel the Cuban wasn’t aware of the moment; he sat humped against the bulwark nursing his pain, his eyes closed and his head on his chest. Across from him, five feet from where I was standing, Roget the black leaned in a crouch to keep the profile of the big Suzuki below the rail. He also was looking at Nicko. The fifth man was at the helm, his back to us. Above the cabin roof the radar scanner-swung, and a penant flew against the stars.

  This was the scene.

  Nicko pulled his gun.

  ‘Fidel.’

  Kicked the Cuban’s foot to get him conscious. Fidel lifted his head and looked up into Nicko’s bright little eyes, and shrank.

  ‘Get up.’

  Didn’t move. He couldn’t look away from the man above him. His lips began forming words that made no sound.

  ‘Get up!’

  It took a little time, a few seconds, because he was in a lot of pain; but he got to his feet and Nicko looked into his face.

  Turn around.’

  We rose on a crest and there was Miami again, jewel-bright in the distance, riding out the night. I wished Fidel could have turned his head and seen it, because it was so pretty. It might have reminded him of Juanita.

  ‘Kneel. On your knees.’

  Somewhere a lanyard was slapping timber to the wind of our passage, strumming in the quietness, passing the time. Flotsam drifted past, a cement bag, I think, or a life-jacket.

  ‘Nicko. Not with the gun.’ Vicente, from the cabin.

  Nicko turned with a jerk. ‘Jesus Christ, we’re miles —’

  ‘Not with the gun.’

  The tone almost quiet, but with a lot of emphasis, a lot of authority.

  Fidel didn’t hear them, or didn’t follow the meaning; he knelt facing the bulwark, his back to Nicko, praying softly in Spanish. There was nothing I could do for him and I don’t think that in any case it would have been wise. If anything happened he would be in the way, fatally, perhaps, in the way.

  ‘Listen, for Christ’s sake, one shot won’t make any —’

  ‘Nicko. If you use a gun, Mr Toufexis is going to know. He is going to know from me. You’ve seen Mr Toufexis with people, Nicko. He will be like that with you. So do it now, and not with a gun.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ But in capitulation.

  I suppose Vicente was thinking in terms of numbers, physical numbers. If he didn’t want anyone to make a noise there was no point in Roget’s holding the big Suzuki on me any more. He’d be better off putting it down and getting his hands ready in case I tried to do anything. Fidel wouldn’t do anything: he wasn’t in Vicente’s reckoning. The way he was working his numbers out, there were four men against one, and that would be enough in the event of trouble.

  ‘Do it, Nicko. Now.’

  I don’t think Vicente had thought about Roget and the Suzuki yet. He was too concerned with Nicko and the need to get this over soon, at once. He watched Nicko go to the chain locker and come back with a marlin spike.

  ‘Christ sake,’ he said, looking up at Vicente in the cabin. ‘Think of the fucking mess.’

  I thought his tone was interesting. To take a gun away from a man like this, a man who cleans it, loads it, wears it wherever he goes, is like taking his clothes off him. It feels like a different world to him, a world in which he feels exposed. And I believe there was another thing. Nicko was squeamish. To shoot another man from a distance, however short, is to enjoy the remoteness of the act, the technical sophistication of moving the safety catch off, of aiming, holding still, and moving the trigger against the spring. But to take a man’s life with the bare hands or with some crude instrument as an extension of the hands is an act of intimacy, of an intimacy greater by far than the act of love, involving as it does the plundering of life itself.

  He stood there, Nicko, holding the spike, not sure how he was going to do this without getting blood on his expensive khaki suit. He was holding the thing in both hands, in the horrible semblance of a golfer about to make a stroke.

  ‘Time, Nicko,’ from the cabin, ‘you’re wasting time. Do it.’

  I thought I heard Roget’s teeth chattering, on my left. Perhaps he didn’t really like the act of slaughtering when it came to it; or perhaps he was excited, I don’t know.

  ‘Nicko,’ I said, ‘let the poor little bastard jump overboard, give him a chance to swim. He won’t steal again, after this.’

  Nicko turned his head to look at me, and the look was murderous, I think because I’d offered him a get-out he couldn’t take.

  ‘Fucking shuddup.’

  His fat little face shone with sweat. I could smell him from where I stood. Then he looked back at the man kneeling in front of him, at the back of his head.

  The timing wasn’t right: I couldn’t make a move. If I tried making a move the timing would have to be perfect, and I would need to use Fidel the Cuban and I would need to use him in the moment of his death.

  ‘Nicko.’ From the cabin. ‘You want me to come and do it, Nicko?’

  I think Vicente knew the fat man well enough to know that he would be stung by that, would feel unbrave, unable to kill a man without his gun.

  Do you know how to turn?

  The swell moved under us all, lifting and letting us fall as if to the rhythm of our mother’s bosom, the bosom of Mother Earth, as if we were brothers, Nicko, Vicente, Roget, Fidel and the man at the helm whose name I didn’t know, as if they were my brothers.

  Very fast? Do you know how to turn very fast?

  Which in a way I suppose they were, my brothers, born with me on this little piece of interstellar rock, to be nurtured by the same essences of water and of air, the same magnetic waves, the same vibrations, and then to die. But I was not going to think about that.