Dave glanced down at his bleeding calf. He must have got scratched when he hauled himself up the ladder and out of harm’s sabre-toothed way.
‘The fuck happened down there anyway?’ asked Al.
Dave shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what had happened himself. He started to throw off the headlines securing the Britannia to the Duke’s port wall. ‘Fucking Jaws is what happened. There was a goddamn barracuda down there. At least six, seven feet long.’
Al looked impressed. ‘As big as my dick, huh? That’s some fuckin’ fish.’
‘Fish? That was a prehistoric monster. It was just teeth and fins. Scared the shit out of me. I’m lucky to be here with two arms and two legs.’ He threw off the springlines and then looked at his empty wrist. ‘It ate my watch. Can you believe that?’
‘Ain’t no accounting for taste.’
‘A $5,000 watch.’
‘You can buy seven of those when you get home. One for every day of the week.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. I can, can’t I?’ Dave waved Al toward the sternlines. ‘Cast off at the stern there, will ya? And let’s get outta here before something else happens.’
‘Told you that swimming was dangerous,’ chuckled Al. ‘That bitch in Jaws? The one who goes skinny-dipping at the start of the movie? Everyone knows her ass is heading for the shark’s dinner plate. Man, as soon as I saw that fuckin’ film I knew you’d never get my dick in salt water. What we saw in Costa Rica just put that in triplicate. The sea’s a bad neighborhood. It’s like Overtown at night, and you’re some dumb tourist drivin’ along in a big white rental with "Sucker" written on the rear window sticker. Radio on, splashin’ around, makin’ a lot of noise, havin’ a good time, not a care in the world. But just askin’ to get his ass chewed up by some nigger with a knife. Sharks? Barracudas? Same as.’
Kate could hardly believe it when, yelping with pain and her wrist as raw as a bad case of sunburn, she finally extracted her hand from the cuff. Tearing off the tape that covered her mouth she quickly drank a glass of water, then used the lavatory. She was just about to go up on deck when she heard the gunshots. The sound brought a bitter little smile to her sticky lips. They were still on board. And if they were still on board there was a chance that she could stop them. Stop him. She didn’t much care about the other guy. Or even the drugs. It was Dave she was after now.
She crawled upstairs and along to the wheelhouse only to find the radio handset gone. Collecting her binoculars from the control console, she knelt down by the window and searched the ship for some sign of Dave or his partner. Straight away she picked him out, walking quickly along the port wall toward the stern of the ship. He was wearing a wet-suit and he looked pissed, as if something hadn’t quite gone according to plan. Then she saw him climb on board the Britannia and start arguing with Al.
‘Bastard,’ she murmured. ‘Think you can screw me and my operation and get away with it.’
It was bad enough, she decided, to be a drug smuggler. But to steal someone else’s drugs was beneath contempt. Probably they had arranged some mid-Atlantic rendezvous. A large cargo vessel. Well, she could do something about that. If there was one radio working on the whole ship she could call the French Navy submarine. But the sub was probably already close to the planned underwater rendezvous with the Duke. With any luck it would see what was happening and move in to intercept the Britannia.
The very least she might do would be to slow the Britannia down. But without guns how was it to be done? Maybe she could ram Dave’s boat. Perhaps even sink him. And probably sink herself at the same time. Sinking Dave might have been less hazardous if there had been a boat with some sort of gun, like the 25-millimetre rapid fire guns aboard one of the Coast Guard patrol boats that Sam Brockman commanded. Not that he was any help to her now. Nor Kent Bowen. There was simply no time to crack the remainder of the combination to the safe on board the Juarista and get the handcuff keys to release the two of them. Bowen would probably be more of a hindrance anyway. The more she thought about it, the more she decided it was better Bowen stayed out of her way. Things couldn’t get any worse for her future with the Bureau than they already were. Finding the crew and releasing them looked like a better bet.
Kate crept up on deck, mounted the dock wall, and ran along to the accommodations block. Behind her she heard a sound that made her think she might have a little more time than she had expected. The Britannia seemed to be having trouble starting up its engines. They had just backfired and then died. The noise reminded her of Jellicoe’s two trophy cannons, and suddenly she thought she saw a way of getting back into the game. Hadn’t the captain boasted of firing those cannons once a year to commemorate Nelson’s birthday? Jellicoe’s eccentricity might provide her with just the edge she needed to stop Dave. Now, if she could only release him and his crew in time.
‘Why won’t she start?’ demanded Al.
Dave winced. ‘Damned if I know.’ He turned the ignition key again, listening carefully to the sound it made and then glanced at the fuel gauge. But for the needle registering full tanks, he might have said they were out of gas. Exasperated, Dave shook his head and tried again. Nothing.
‘Maybe a stray bullet hit something,’ suggested Al. ‘Forty-five caliber goes straight through people. Must have ended up somewhere.’
‘Maybe. I’m going below to take a look.’
‘Well hurry it up.’
The engine room was in the stern of the boat, separated from the full-width master suite where the two bodies lay by a well-insulated watertight bulkhead. Mercifully, Dave did not have to go through the stateroom to get in there. Just climb down a narrow stairwell and open a set of double doors. Once inside the engine room, he knelt by one of the boat’s two Detroit diesel engines. A cursory examination of the fuel line entering the engine revealed that it wasn’t receiving any fuel at all. Dave opened the tank and shone a flashlight inside. It was full of diesel.
‘There must be some kind of blockage in the fuel line,’ he said as Al appeared in the doorway. He checked the fuel line to the second engine and frowned. ‘Still, they can’t both be blocked. Fuel pump must have packed up.’
‘Shit.’ Al punched the bulkhead wall hard. ‘Shit.’
For a moment Dave was haunted by the recollection of something Kate had said at the party. Something about the impellers. If they packed up so did the pump and so did the diesel. Except that there were two engines, two fuel pumps, and two sets of impellers. What were the odds on both impellers packing up at the same time? Two of everything except fuel tanks. There was only one fuel tank. The problem had to be in there.
‘I guess we’d better get ourselves another boat,’ said Al. ‘And here was me thinking I was through fetching and carrying for the rest of my fuckin’ life.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Dave. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
He went back up on deck, returning moments later with a boat hook.
‘It’s a long shot,’ he explained, inserting the end of the pole into the tank and stirring it around. ‘But it could be...’ Immediately golden diesel filled both clear plastic fuel lines. Dave grinned. ‘Son of a bitch.’
‘What?’
‘There’s something stashed in the tanks. I can feel it on the end of this pole. Something soft and squishy. Not hard like the bottom of the tank. It feels like some kind of a rag. Or maybe a bag.’ Suddenly it dawned on him what it was he could feel on the end of the boat hook. ‘Of course. These tanks must be full of narcotics. That was why they were so nervous, Al. This was the boat the Feds were watching.’