A Woman Involved. John Davis Gordon

took a big, tremulous breath.

      ‘Oh, thank God,’ she whispered.

      And he knew she really was thanking God.

14

      He was suddenly awake, just as it was getting dark. She was still deep asleep. He went into the bathroom, dashed cold water onto his face. He pulled on the clothes Mr Gillespie had provided. He unzipped Anna’s handgrip and took some money. Then he sat down, to wait for dark.

      He parted the curtain. For a minute he watched. There was nobody to be seen in the garden. There was no light in the study window below.

      He slid the window open. He swung his leg over the sill. He dropped onto the lawn below. He scrambled up and ran for the trees.

      He ran at the wall, and jumped. He gripped the top and swung his leg up. He straddled it, then he rolled over.

      He dropped into the road below. He scrambled up.

      He walked down the road fast for a hundred yards, then he came to the beach. He started running.

      The taxi dropped him off along the waterfront.

      He walked feverishly towards the harbour. There were sailing boats, sport-fishing boats. He came to a handpainted sign. It read: Big King for Big Fish. It gave a telephone number. There were more signs. He pulled out his wallet and made a note.

      Ahead there was a bar, overlooking the harbour. He made for it. He went in and signalled to the black barman. ‘Beer, please.’

      He paid for it with one of Max Hapsburg’s fifty-dollar bills and got the change. ‘Have you got a telephone?’

      ‘Nope. Don’t work.’

      Morgan pushed a dollar bill across the bar. ‘Where do I find Big King? I want to go fishing.’

      The barman took the dollar. He jerked his head. ‘He’s anchored out there aways. See that hot-water boat?’

      Morgan peered across the harbour. The launch was about forty feet long, with a flying bridge.

      ‘How do I get out there? Is there a rowboat?’

      ‘Sounds like five bucks to me.’

      He would gladly have paid fifty.

      The barman turned and yelled: ‘Take this gennelman to Big King …’

      A black boy rowed him out. There were lights burning in Big King’s portholes. There was a rubber dinghy tied to the stern. Morgan grabbed the gunnel. He called, ‘Mr King?’

      A head appeared at the aft hatch. It wore a baseball cap and the face was round and heavy. ‘Yeah?’

      ‘Can I rent your boat tomorrow?’

      ‘Nope,’ Big King said, ‘she’s already rented. For the next three days. After that, okay.’

      ‘Can you take me to Saint Vincent, day after tomorrow?’

      ‘Saint Vincent?’

      Morgan gave the boy ten dollars, so he would remember him. And, hopefully, Saint Vincent. ‘Okay, son, Mr King will row me ashore.’ He climbed aboard the Kingfisher. He extended his hand. ‘My name is Smithers.’

      Big King’s hand was big and rough.

      ‘Smithers, huh? Or Jones? What do you want to go to Saint Vincent for? Cos I don’t smuggle dope no more, got my ass burned.’

      Morgan was measuring the man. Old, out of condition. ‘No dope. What do you charge a day?’

      ‘A hundred and fifty bucks, counting the rods and bait. Bring your own food and booze, cos I run no gin palace.’

      Morgan said: ‘Can you get me and my wife to Saint Vincent tonight?’

      ‘Nope. Because I won’t be back by dawn to pick up my party.’

      ‘Six hundred dollars, to forget your party.’

      ‘Nope. Big King’s got a reputation to maintain.’

      ‘How much?’

      ‘Nope. There’s plenty of boats who’ll take you but they’ll cost you plenty more than six hundred bucks if you’re running grass.’

      ‘We’ll be carrying no drugs. You can search us.’

      ‘Yeah? – you going to let me look up your wife’s vagina? You can carry a lot of cocaine up there, in a condom. Sorry, mister, I got a party anyways.’

      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