Adam Hall - Quiller Barracuda

'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 .

He was holding my card up, turning it aslant to catch the light. I think I heard Foreign Office , but that could have been because I was listening for it. Then there was Mr Toufexis , and then Proctor again and then Thatcher , be it given that I was only getting snatches.

It was really very frustrating because the executive for the mission was only a telephone number away from the objective and he was three miles out to sea with a man on one side of him with his testicles out cold and a man on the other side waiting to blow his head across the bay if he did anything wrong and a man in the cabin there with orders for his immediate execution.

All I want, Nicko, is that telephone number, you little fat bastard, the one you've just called, and if I ever get you alone you're going to tell me what it is.

The deck rose and fell away to the slow undulations of the swell; the Miami skyline was lifted suddenly from the dark and strewn across the horizon in a cascade of diamonds, then was lost again, blotted out by the profile of the cabin. Assignment … government … janitor – no, Senator … Senator Judd , more clearly now as the man at the helm throttled the diesels back, slowing us.

Nicko cradled the telephone and there was no more to listen to, as I asked the black, 'Are we nearly there?' I wanted to know how he was feeling, how confident or how nervous.

'Keep your fuckin' mouth shut, you know what I mean?'

No reliable data. Nicko was coming back and Roget turned his head a little to look at him so I shifted my feet again, three inches this time because it wouldn't be much longer now.

'You're full of shit.'

Nicko, standing in front of me, the small eyes glinting.

'Did you talk to Proctor himself?'

Got a reaction: we hadn't mentioned his name before.

'There isn't any mistake. There isn't any assignment. You wasted my time, and I don't like that.'

But I'd got the answer. Only Proctor knew enough about me to know I wasn't on an assignment for the Thatcher government in connection with Senator Judd. This man had just been speaking to the objective. I was that close.

'I suggested you telephone Mr Toufexis,' I said, 'not Proctor.'

'What's the difference?'

Perhaps I could have gone on from there, kept him talking if there'd been time, tried a few oblique questions about Monique, Kim Harvester, Erica Cambridge, 1330 Riverside Way, the yacht Contessa, to see if I could get any more information to work on, to give to Ferris, but there wasn't a chance because the man in the cabin, Vicente, was turning round.

'Hey, Nicko. You have to do it now.'

This was the scene. This was the scene of the execution.

We were moving at less than cruising speed and there was less noise from the diesels. The wake bannered from the stern across the sea towards Miami. There was a vessel a mile off, perhaps less; it was difficult to judge distances by moonlight on a reflecting surface. The vessel was marked only by its riding lights. Two or three more stood off our port quarter, farther away, one of them with lights shining on deck and from a line of portholes below. Another looked as if it had way on, and showed both red and green lights. It was heading obliquely in our direction but wouldn't pass close, no closer than half a mile.

Water slapped below the bows; the night was peaceful.

The man Vicente was still turned towards us in the cabin, looking at Nicko. Fidel the Cuban wasn't aware of the moment; he sat humped against the bulwark nursing his pain, his eyes closed and his head on his chest. Across from him, five feet from where I was standing, Roget the black leaned in a crouch to keep the profile of the big Suzuki below the rail. He also was looking at Nicko. The fifth man was at the helm, his back to us. Above the cabin roof the radar scanner-swung, and a penant flew against the stars.