She was a single-deck motor yacht with twin diesels and a cluster of antennae on the cabin roof; I estimated our speed at fifteen knots, and we were a mile from the shore, heading out.
'We don't tolerate thieves!'
Fidel didn't voice any reaction to the kick; his limbs jerked and were still again. It displeased Nicko. I think he'd wanted a scream.
'You know Mr Toufexis. He doesn't tolerate thieving!'
A hiss of breath as the kick raked across his legs, leaving him spilled on the deck with his groin exposed, and the fat man went for that and got his scream.
'There's got to be trust, you understand me? Trust. With this kind of money around and this kind of merchandise, we've got to trust everyone else, and they've got to trust us. You understand what I'm saying?'
Fidel the Cuban was prone now and vomiting, couldn't answer, wouldn't have answered anyway. I'd seen the two men in the control cabin look around when Fidel had screamed. They didn't like Nicko: I'd noticed it before. I would have said they were more like professional traders than men of the criminal type as such; they weren't here to take their revenge on society but simply to make money, a great deal of money. They were business men, not thieves; hence Nicko's nice distinction. This didn't mean they weren't dangerous.
'Get up!' Standing over the Cuban, hands on his hips, his face red with rage, a show of monstrous petulance. 'Clean that up!'
The swell lowered us smoothly into a trough and there was the city again, looking beautiful. The throb of the diesels was low and sensual, the warm air rich with the scent of seaweed.
'You're too fat, Nicko,' I said.
He looked down at me.
'What did you say?'
'You're too fat.'
He was a short man, didn't carry his weight with majesty like Sidney Greenstreet or Orson Welles. Nicko was just a dumpling of a man, spoiled, a cakeseeker. I thought he might be sensitive about it and he was. It was as quick as he could manage but it was done in rage, which lowered the muscle tone, and I had a lot of time to monitor the kick as it came, and when it came I caught it, nothing more than that, caught it and held the ankle until he began losing his balance, because I didn't want him to fall – the moment had come and gone.
It had been an essay, that was all. Nicko was standing over me and blocking Roget completely, and it might have been possible to use the fat man for my purposes, which were of course to avoid death. But I would need to make physical contact with him before I could do anything to him, and I couldn't have got to my feet and started work because there wouldn't have been enough time – he would have come at me right away. So I'd had to get him to make the first contact, and things had come very close because I could have done a lot more than just hold his ankle -1 could have straightened up and pitched him back against the man with the gun and Roget would probably, would very probably have loosed off at least one shot in his surprise.
I wouldn't of course have stopped there: that would have been the beginning, with two people off balance and wide open and the ship's rail immediately behind them. It could have been quite elegant in a way, though somewhat too easy to claim any credit. I didn't attempt it because there were some unpredictable factors. Nicko and the black would have had their throats well exposed and would have been dead before they went over the rail; but I couldn't have told where that first impulsive shot would have gone: it could have gone straight through Nicko and into me. There had also been no predicting how fast the two men in the control cabin would have reacted and got to their guns. In the end, within those few milliseconds when I was holding the fat man's ankle, I let the subconscious make the decision for me because it could scan the whole range of data very much faster than the forebrain and it would be much more accurate.
I am just telling you this, my good friend, to let you know that I was not just sitting there on my bloody rump awaiting the grim bloody reaper; I was not intending to offer this fat little tick the high privilege of despatching me with a shot from his bloody little gun without first culling whatever grace and favour the gods might have for me and turning it to my cunning advantage, without in simpler terms trying everything.
But there is nothing to try, my good friend. You know that. You've heard of whistling in the dark.
'You want to be funny?' In almost a scream, a scream of rage, getting his balance again and bringing his right leg back and starting another kick, not having learned, and this time I parried the foot and turned and straightened up and let his momentum carry him against the rail and when he span round I slapped him with the back of my hand across the eyes, across, more significantly, the pineal gland. Then I waited while he got his orientation back, and it took a bit of time: he lurched about with a hand to his forehead and his other hand reaching out to grab the rail and then my arm, and when he grabbed my arm I chopped gently across his wrist to make him pay attention, to make him understand that I didn't like to be touched with those little pink hermit-crab fingers.
'Freeze!'
Roget, of course, getting excited, waving the gun;
'Oh fuck off,' I said and went on watching Nicko, waiting for him to get himself in order again; but the pain in his wrist was occupying him so I took the opportunity of talking a little.
'Look, Nicko, there are things we've got to discuss and they could be to your immediate advantage, but you're putting me in the wrong mood with all this fidgeting. Are you listening to me, Nicko? I hope you are, because otherwise you could make a very grave mistake in taking on the whole of the British Government.'
He got his eyes focused at last but their expression showed only confusion. I didn't expect him to fall for the British Government thing but I could be wrong and he might be thinking about it. There were also the other problems he'd suddenly been given to work out – he'd tried to get through with a couple of kicks but it hadn't got him anywhere and he was bright enough to know that if I'd decided to use more force I could have snapped his wrist and knocked him out cold with a backfist instead of stunning the pineal with a slap. People with guns aren't ready for any kind of resistance and it phases them, but I could be making a mistake with this man and he could get rid of his angst by going for his gun and putting a bullet right through my own pineal gland, touche.
'The British Government? The fuck are you talking about?'
An intellectual question: he'd got his emotions under enough control to let him think straight and I liked that because it made him more predictable.
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.