And this perspective, I knew, was necessary to me: it would give me a tool for getting inside Nicko's mind, so that I could see if there were anything I could do to it, if there were time.
They will take us out to sea, and then shoot us, and throw us to the sharks. That is the way it is done.
'Fidel,' I said, 'why will they shoot us first?'
'Because otherwise we might swim to shore. It will be only a few miles.' His eyes watching me in the glass, interested in me now, perhaps because I wanted to know all about this thing instead of wailing to my mother. 'It is their way because they do not have to get rid of our bodies. There will only be bits and pieces found, perhaps.' Impatiently – 'You are not afraid?'
'I don't intend to be thrown to any sharks; I wish you'd understand that.'
In a moment, 'You are not American, I think?'
'No.'
'You are English?'
'Yes.'
'It explains things, then. I have heard that the English cannot see the nose on their face.'
'We try to look beyond it, you see. Have they sent for this boat especially to take us out there?'
'Of course not. There will be a pickup.'
Some of the fear had gone out of his voice; he'd got over his madre mia bit and his prayers to the almighty God who had decided understandably to drop him in the shit, and now he was fatalistic, but that wasn't really any better, any more useful to me. I would need to get some feeling back in him. Anger, perhaps. Anger towards Nicko. That could be dangerous because this man was a Latin and liable to shoot the whole chamber dry before he took aim, but I'd have to make the best of the material. I would much rather have worked alone, but he might get in the way and it was probably safer to bring him into the act than risk his messing it up.
The boat was riding at the jetty, a line taut round a capstan with a man keeping it secure. Another man had come down to the quay to meet Nicko, and they were talking now. We've got a couple of guys to take care of, so forth.
There were questions, of course, that would have to wait, because I needed all the time I could get to structure some kind of survival; they would be asked later and perhaps answered, if ever at all – where had Nicko got that photograph? Why was he so ready to blow me away without checking my identity more than he had? Was it Proctor who had thrown this net out for me, with photographs all over the town? Questions like that.
But more immediately: 'A pickup of cocaine?'
'Of course.'
"This boat is carrying the cash?'
'The cash is in the other car.'
'How much?'
'I do not know. I am not on this run. When you say you might do something, what -'
'I'll tell you when the time is right. How many runs have you done, Fidel?'
'Many.'
'With Nicko?'
'Sometimes.'
'How much cash is usually taken on board?'
'It depends. Different sources, different deals. Maybe half a million, maybe a million.'
'American dollars.'
'Of course.'
Nicko was nodding to the other man; then he turned and began walking towards the Chevrolet. The two men on the quay started scanning the environment, each with one hand tucked inside his jacket. Nicko brought a black suitcase from the Chevrolet, ducking to talk to someone inside, Monique perhaps. Then he nodded and slammed the door and began walking with the suitcase towards the jetty. Almost as an afterthought he turned his head to look at Roget, the black, and jerked his free hand, gesturing towards the boat.
It was then that the reality of the thing hit me and I was made to know that I had been whistling in the dark in order to keep panic away because there was nothing I could do if I got inside that man's mind, no argument I could use to stop his hand. I was one of the two tiny people who would be dropped into the sea and that was it.
The only chance of getting clear would be in some kind of action between the Lincoln and the boat and Roget would have his big black Suzuki trained on us and even if I could get it away from him the other men were armed and would be too far away for me to work on them. If the -
'Outa the car!' Jerking the Suzuki. 'C'mon, outa the fuckin' car!'
I saw Fidel go into spasm as if a bullet had hit him; then he opened the door and its edge caught against the wall and he had to pull it away, walking round the front of the car with his eyes on the sky, praying again I suppose.
'You! Outa the fuckin' car!'
I opened the door and pushed it shut after me and noted everything I could as I walked to the jetty. Roget was of course at our backs; Nicko was halfway along the jetty with the suitcase, leaning a little backwards as fat men have to, leaning a little to the left to counter the weight of the suitcase in his right hand, not looking back, or towards us, towards Fidel and me, taking care as he got hold of the boat's rail and stepped aboard. Monique was still in the Chevrolet: I wouldn't expect her, or any woman, to be present at an execution.
'Keep walkin'!'
I think Fidel had slowed his step, understandably; when I glanced at him I saw that he had paled and was walking with that jerky motion, head down now, that I'd seen in him earlier, as if he knew exactly what had to be done. He'd been here before, not like this but behind a gun, herding some other man to the slaughter-house.
We were on the jetty now with the boat twenty, twenty-five feet away and black water immediately on my left. It was inviting, because once I was under the surface I could move a long way unseen; but there wouldn't be time to dive; Roget would pump the big Suzuki as a reflex action.
That was the last chance that offered; once on the boat there would be no more, and as I followed the Cuban onto the deck I caught some of the aura, and felt the fear wash into me, chilling me to the bone.
Chapter 12: DIAMONDS
Seen from the ocean Miami is beautiful by night, a blaze of light floating from horizon to horizon on the water and reflected there. The night lends a semblance of purity to most cities; their light flowers from them as if from unsullied soil.
I saw the bright frieze of the skyline at intervals, when the swell dropped the boat into the long indigo troughs: Fidel and I were sitting in the scuppers on the afterdeck, our knees drawn up, Roget standing with his back to the opposite rail with the big gun trained on us. When I could see the water I noticed that flotsam was everywhere, the detritus of smashed pontoons and jetties and small boats thrown up by the hurricane and strewn across the sea. Perhaps there were bodies there; I looked for none.