Bernard Cornwell - Crackdown

“You are so right.”

Dawn was showing like a line of gun-metal above the horizon. The wind was rife with the stench of helicopter fuel, but beyond the coral reefs there would be a cutting cleanness to the air. I suddenly wanted to be away in my boat; just Ellen, Masquerade , and myself in great waters. I looked ruefully at my bandaged arm. “You’ve made it kind of hard for me to mend my boat, you big non-existent bastard.”

“The boat’s going to Florida tomorrow, Nick. You signed the papers, remember?”

I stared up into the Maggot’s strong face. “When was all this set up? After Sea Rat Cay?”

“Sure. But even before that we kind of guessed Rickie might be making a play. It was all his idea to come to the Bahamas, remember? And the senator has been co-operating with the authorities for a few months now. In the first place he thought that by co-operating he could keep his son’s sentence low, and in the second place he reckoned it might just pay off in a big stinking heap of publicity, and publicity to a politician is what cocaine is to Rickie. But I still didn’t know if we were going ahead, even yesterday. We were kind of doing it by the seat of our pants, Nick, and I reckon if the bad guys hadn’t come gunning for you, then my lily-livered lawyer superiors wouldn’t have had the guts to turn us loose.” The Maggot turned to stare back at the houses. The fire had been put out now, but in its place was a patch of brilliant white light that was evidently cast by the sun-guns of some television crews. “The press are already here,” the Maggot explained, “on account that some of them were accidentally invited to watch a night of Operation Stingray.”

“Accidentally invited by the senator?” I asked.

“I do believe his press office was involved. And I do believe that we may just have seen the making of a President.” The Maggot lit a cigarette. “Of course, there’ll be a whole lot more pressmen and television people arriving in a few hours, and they’ll all want to talk to you. One of my jobs is to make sure you say the right things, Nick.”

The helicopters carrying the press had landed on the island’s northern promontory. From there the reporters had been escorted to see the tons of cocaine that had been waiting on the island for shipment to America, then the journalists were offered the senator as the hero of the hour. This would be tonight’s lead television news story; how a senator’s gallant attempt to rescue his children had led to the smashing of a Latin-American cocaine family. Good had triumphed over evil, the white knight had ridden deep into the valley of the shadow of death and had come out smelling of roses and his reward would be the White House rose garden. The politician had found his cause, America would have its illusion and the drugs would still flow in by other routes.

The press were not shown the bodies. One of the dead was Deacon Billingsley. He had been the man who had come to the door in the house and had there been killed by a full magazine from my Scorpion. Now, like the other dead, Billingsley had been zipped into a green rubber bodybag.

The press were not introduced to Rickie or Robin-Anne. Rickie was carried to a helicopter on a stretcher, while Robin-Anne walked beside him, her hand in his. “The rich are different,” the Maggot said sourly as he watched the senator’s two children being gently escorted away.

“How so?”

“Everyone else gets handcuffed and kicked around, but the bloody rich get choppered off to a five-star drug clinic. And doubtless the judge will be told that Rickie helped turn in the Colón family, which means Rickie will only get a light tap on the wrist and told not to be a silly boy again.” The Maggot spat into the sand as the Crowninshield twins were helped up into their helicopter.

The reporters were allowed to see the prisoners being led towards another waiting chopper. The cabinet minister was protesting his innocence, but Warren Smedley, the DEA agent, had already revealed to the press that a half-ton of cocaine had been discovered in the cabinet minister’s house. It was clear that the island’s distinguished hostages, designed to keep the Americans off Murder Cay, had been expected to share the island’s dangers as well as its pleasures. Miguel Colón, stone-faced, was submitting to the plastic manacles with dignity, while Smedley, his captor, was looking like a sourpuss that had found the world’s largest bowl of double cream. He even listened courteously as I passed on McIllvanney’s protestations of innocence. “At this time,” Smedley magnanimously responded, “we are recommending prosecution only against the island’s inhabitants and their paid guards, not against their domestic servants or transient visitors.”

“Not that any of it counts,” the Maggot said to me when Smedley had gone. “The lawyers will have every single prisoner out on bail by this time tomorrow, and we’ll be lucky if we can extradite even one of them.”

The reporters were not introduced to the Maggot, who stayed well clear of their cameras and notebooks. His name would not be mentioned in any newspaper because, officially, he did not exist. Instead he walked unnoticed towards the airstrip where the navigation lights of yet more American helicopters strobed in the day’s first feral light. “It’s time I went,” he told me, then he turned and stared briefly into the far western sky where, dark against the fading stars, a lone helicopter beat its way towards Murder Cay. “I guess you know what to say to the press, Nick?”

“The truth?” I suggested.

“That’s usually dangerous.” The Maggot grinned. “Why not say that only you and the senator came to the island, no one else, and you didn’t bring any guns with you, you took the weapons off some careless guards who crashed their jeep. You’ll see that we’ve tipped the damn jeep over for you, so the story will ring true. You don’t say that the senator was pissing in his jockey shorts, instead you talk convincingly of his noble and self-sacrificing heroism and of his outstanding qualities of leadership. If you can sing a bar or two of ‘Hail to the Chief’, that would help. And, naturally, the two of you only fired in self-defence.”

I smiled. “Naturally.”

The lone helicopter was over the edge of the airstrip now, its landing lights bright on the stunted slash pines and sea-grape. The Maggot was not watching it; instead he was looking towards a small group of civilians who were being escorted by grinning Coastguards towards a big Chinook. “Dear Lord above.” The Maggot’s voice was suddenly hushed into an unnatural reverence. “Do you see what I see, Nick? Is that not pure essence of bimbo?”

I turned to see the group of girls being ushered towards the Chinook, but only one girl in that group could possibly have been a match for the Maggot’s concupiscent dreams. “She’s called Donna,” I told him, “and she’s an Episcopalian from Philadelphia, and she needs a tennis coach to look after her backhand.”

“Nick, don’t tease a friend.”

“It’s true,” I said, “as God is my witness, she’s worried about her backhand. Say you’re a friend of mine, and tell her I said ‘hi’.”

“You are a great and generous man, Nick. And I do believe I have found myself a private pupil.” He gave me an evil grin, then held out his huge hand with its heavy Superbowl ring. “I’ll see you before we die?”

I took his hand, then held on to it to stop him from walking away. “One question, Maggot,” I said.

“Try me.”

I had to raise my voice because of the din being made by the landing helicopter. “The girl in Pittsburgh? Was she a lie too?”

He shook his head. “No, my friend. Wendy is all too goddamned real. She’s why I do this.”