Wednesday morning he contacted Bonin's man, Charles Graham, identifying himself as Domingo Baztan. The Basques, too, had a separatist movement and unusual accents.
He stood some distance from the boathouse at first, pleased that the long individual boathouse was in good repair. The man who unlocked the door was a tall windburned specimen dressed in ducking to his shoes. The beret said he was Graham. The accent suggested he was a New Jersey transplant. They met inside the boathouse and traded ritual handclasps, Graham standing so near he seemed to loom.
"Hope you didn't want me to pick up your man today, Baztan," the larger man said. "I've got to put her in tune first." He indicated a powerboat that lurked beyond.
Forgetting himself, 'Baztan' cursed in Arabic. The boat was fifteen meters long, eel-slender, its lines promising great speed and minimal radar echo. Though no sailor he knew instantly that some rational alternative must be found. "It looks very fast," he said.
"Runs like a striped-assed ape," Graham chuckled, motioning `Baztan' alongside the craft. "Twin turbocharged chevy four-fifty-fours, sixteen hundred shaft horses between 'em. A Cigarette will cross Juan De Fuca Strait in fifteen minutes with weather like this."
"Cigarette?"
"That's what they call this breed. Designed for ocean racing; the only thing that'll catch it is a bullet. They're sots for fuel, though. That's part of the three thousand you're paying."
The little man studied the boat, realizing that it would have to reach one hundred forty kilometers per hour to cross the treacherous ocean strait as Graham boasted. Anyone lying under its hull would be pounded to marmalade at that speed. No, the Cigarette would not do. Well enough for Bonin's uses, perhaps. He cleared his throat, choosing to sound vulnerable." Is it a smooth crossing? The man is very old, very frail."
Graham thought about it. "Maybe I could strap him in foam cushions, when we clear Port Angeles on the way back." He jerked a thumb at the sleek craft. "This thing is the Can-Am car of powerboats, Baztan, at eighty knots she'll rearrange his guts. There's nothing I can do about that," he smiled.
"His heart is very bad," was the response.
"Then he'd need a transplant in ten seconds. Do you care?"
The little man brightened. Graham had given him another idea in his cover story. "After I cross over tonight and bring him to meet you at Port Angeles tomorrow, my responsibility is discharged. If he arrives with you here in Victoria, well and good. If he should happen to fall overboard and you arrive back here alone—again, well and good." A brief smile for Graham. "But he is not a fool, and I think he would refuse to accept your trick Cigarette. And then I would not be paid."
"I'm not the dumbest jack-off in the world either. If you can't drive him across the border he must be pretty hot."
A shrug. "What we need is a craft that is docile and looks it."
Graham led him along creaking planks until they stood at the mouth of the boathouse, blinking in the strong light. He pointed toward the nearest of the sloops that nodded at moorings. "The Bitch is the only other boat I have, a refitted Islander Thirty-Four. She'll do all of six knots with the big jib, friend; she wouldn't outrun a pissant with waterwings." He eyed the little man with shrewd good humor: "But I won't have to be fast on the south crossing, and maybe not on the return trip. If you really don't care whether the old geezer makes it all the way," he added.
'Baztan's' smile was bland. "I believe the sailboat will do. How long will you need for the crossing?"
"Four hours, maybe five; I have to run close-hauled a lot with the fuckin' winds in the strait. What do you care, so long as I make Port Angeles tomorrow?"
"My client asks such things. When should we rendezvous?"
"High noon, with a brass band?" Graham laughed. "I'll start from here about noon tomorrow. That way we'll have your guy on deck without too much light. I want it dark before I'm back in the strait if I'm gonna, like, dump some ballast."
There was no need to ask about that ballast. The smaller man produced an envelope from his wrinkled but very expensive jacket. Moving back into the shadow he allowed Graham to watch him peel fifteen bills from the stack and tuck them into a pocket. The other fifteen he handed to the Canadian, who counted them without apology. "You will have the rest in Port Angeles."
"Why not right now," asked Graham, stepping closer, and a trifle too quickly.
"Because that is as it must be," he heard, seeing for the first time how a spring-loaded armpit holster works. The little man's right hand did not actually disappear into the jacket butonly seemed to flicker at its lapel, and then Graham was dividing his time between staring into the barrel of a Llama automatic and into the still darker barrels of the little man's eyes. Given the choice, he found he honestly preferred staring at the pistol. The death it suggested would at least be swift and clean. Taking two backward paces, 'Baztan' moved against the boathouse wall. "You will understand if I ask you to precede me."
Graham was still protesting as he stepped through the doorway. "I never meant to spook you, fella," he said, turning to see 'Baztan' who now stood relaxed with empty hands. They were small hands, carefully groomed, and he noticed that they were not shaking as his were. He thrust his hands into his pockets, feeling the money again. He had thought it would be interesting, though no contest, to take the entire three thousand just to see what would happen. Now, standing a head taller than the innocently smiling 'Baztan,' he felt like a tame bullock beside a wolverine. "No hard feelings, Baztan. I should've moved slower." He thrust out his hand, feeling the limp dry fingers in his own. "See you in the States tomorrow about five," he said. "I'll have to go to diesel and switch mains'ls, so look for a dark red sail on the Bitch." He strolled toward the sloop. The back of his neck itched. He let it itch.
'Baztan' walked back to the business district, choosing a hotel at random. In the telephone booth he extracted the HP from a pocket, punching a simple program into it before dialing his second Toronto number. After a moment he placed the HP to the mouthpiece and punched the Memory Return key. A series of tones came to him faintly. It would be lunchtime in Toronto, he mused; perhaps McEvoy was consuming another sandwich.
Then the relay connection fulfilled its task as he heard McEvoy answer. The filters masked the background which might otherwise suggest a long-distance call. "This is Jan Trnka, Mr. McEvoy," he said. "I seem to have overlooked another detail."
"Anything I can help with?"
"No, regrettably. Business compels me to delay our flight. And yet I need the film. You don't suppose," he began quickly, then laughed. "No, I don't suppose you could fly your aircraft and use a camera simultaneously." He spoke as if asking for some rare feat of valor.
McEvoy could, of course. Changing film might be a chore but he was, after all, his own mechanic. "But jeez, Mr. Tee, how do I know what you want to shoot?"
An excellent reply crossed his mind but was throttled. "As much shoreline as you can on the lake," he said, "a cross-section of everything that is—the word?—photogenic? I myself could do no more. And," he lowered his voice, "I shall be very grateful."
McEvoy squirmed between rocks and hard places. "You think you could pay me the balance before I take off, Mr. Tee? I could drive over and pick it up now."
A pause to simulate weighing the idea. "That may not be necessary, Mr. McEvoy. Where is my suitcase?"
"Stowed in the Seabee."
"Would you mind bringing it to the telephone? You can call me here when you have it." He gave a number. What could be more innocent? It was obviously a Toronto prefix.
He heard McEvoy hang up, waited seven minutes, then heard the connection come to life again. "Mr. Tee? Ian McEvoy. I got it here." He was puffing from exertion.