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.