Jack Higgins: Passage by Night

He opened a drawer, took out a flat package and went up on deck.

‘The Bonaventure was an old deep-sea fishing boat, a fifty-footer in green and white, the paintwork peeling from her sides in great strips. The wheelhouse was a good ten feet above the deck and as the boat came round, she dipped alarmingly from side-to-side as though slightly top-heavy.

There were two deck hands, a young boy in canvas jeans, deeply bronzed by the sun, and a thin, balding man with a walleye. They both wielded boat hooks and as the fenders clashed, Manning jumped across.

In the well, three tuna and a couple of wahoo lay jumbled together, flies buzzing around their dead mouths in great clouds. Sanchez leaned out of the wheelhouse and grinned. ‘Come on up, amigo.’

He was at least sixty, but strong and wiry, his body dried to Spanish leather by the sea and sun. When Manning went up the ladder, he found him pouring gin into a couple of dirty glasses. He turned and offered one.

‘Your health,’ he said gravely in Spanish.

‘And yours,’ Manning replied fluently. ‘How are things in Havana?’

‘Much as usual.’ The old man turned and spat through the window. ‘Once we had hope, but now that America has promised not to invade …’

Manning swallowed his gin and said, ‘I’ll have a small bet with you. A hundred dollars American. A year from today, Castro will no longer rule Cuba?’

The old man laughed, spat on his hand and grasped Manning’s firmly. ‘How could I refuse such an offer?’ He raised his glass. ‘To Castro, may he rot in Hell.’

He took a box of thin cigars from a drawer and offered one. ‘Maria – she is well? Still on Spanish Cay singing at this club. What is it called – the Caravel?’

Manning nodded. He took the package from his waistband and dropped it onto the chart table. ‘There’s her usual letter. How’s her mother?’

Sanchez sighed. ‘Not too good, amigo. Don’t tell Maria. She has enough to worry about.’ He took a soiled envelope from his shirt pocket and passed it across. ‘A letter from the old woman. In it, she of course says that she is fine. This is what she wishes Maria to think.’

‘Still no chance of getting her out?’

Sanchez shook his head. ‘Impossible. In any case, her health would not permit it.’ He clapped Manning on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps next year things will be better, eh? Then you will all be able to come back. You to the business they stole from you, Maria to her home. Things will be as they were.’

Manning shook his head. ‘Nothing stays still, Sanchez. Everything changes.’

‘Perhaps you are right.’ Sanchez sighed and took Manning’s hand. ‘Go with God, amigo, and tell Maria to take care. Two of our people were killed in Honduras last week, shot down in the street. Fidel has a long arm.’

‘In Cuba he may be God incarnate – in Nassau, they’d probably certify him.’ Manning grinned and started down the ladder. ‘See you next month.’

As he stepped across to his own boat, Morrison appeared on deck, followed by Seth. The American paused to light a cigarette. As he came forward, The Bonaventure turned out to the sea exposing her name and port of registration on her stern.

‘Havana?’ he said in surprise. ‘I didn’t know Cuban boats came this far north?’

‘They have to if they want tuna or wahoo,’ Manning said. ‘Since the revolution they’ve had to rely completely on their own boats. No one from the islands would go within a mile of the place. They have a nasty habit of impounding anything they particularly fancy in the name of the re volution.’

‘Do I detect a slight edge of bitterness?’

‘You should. I have a salvage business in Havana. When the fidelistas arrived they took it over along with just about every other foreign-owned firm in town. I only managed to clear the harbour in the Grace Abounding by the skin of my teeth.’

‘You don’t care for friend Castro, then?’

Manning shrugged. ‘He’s smart enough. He had to be to promote an eighty-two-man invasion into a popular revolution, but the cracks are beginning to show. He can’t last much longer.’

‘You mean the Russian affair?’

‘Something a lot more important from his point of view. The guagiros – the dirt farmers. The land was supposed to be parcelled out amongst them. Unfortunately a lot of it’s turned out to be virgin jungle or mountain and scrub. You might say the natives are getting restless.’

‘So maybe you’ll get that salvage business of yours back sooner than you think?’

‘No harm in hoping.’ Manning glanced at his watch. ‘If we move now, we might make Johnstown before dark. You could buy me that drink you promised. Even if we didn’t get you a tuna, the afternoon had its moments.’

‘My pleasure,’ Morrison said.

As he went below, Seth was already winding in the anchor. Manning went into the wheelhouse and started the engines. A moment later, he opened the throttle and turned out into the gulf.

2

It was late evening when they came into Spanish Cay and the beach was a white line of surf fringed by palm trees etched against a vivid orange sky.

As the Grace Abounding rounded the point into Johnstown harbour, a deep-sea cruiser moved out into the channel and careless laughter drifted across the water, gay and transitory, blending into the darkness with the muted throb of the engine.

Manning reduced speed and took the boat in towards the crumbling stone jetty that formed the east side of the harbour. A tall, handsome black in the uniform of the colonial police sat on the wall and smoked a cigarette. He got to his feet and grabbed the line Seth threw to him.

Manning cut the engines, reached for his old reefer jacket and went out on deck where Morrison waited for him. When they climbed the rusty iron ladder to the jetty, the young policeman was sitting on the wall again.

He smiled, showing firm white teeth. ‘Any luck, Mr Manning?’

Manning shook his head. ‘Not a damned thing, Joe.’ He turned to Morrison. ‘Have you met Sergeant Howard yet? He stands for the Empire in these parts, or what’s left of it. Keeps us all strictly in line.’

Morrison nodded. ‘We ran across each other when I flew in yesterday. How about joining us for a drink, sergeant?’

‘A little too early. Maybe I’ll take you up on it later.’

‘You do that,’ Morrison said and they moved away along the jetty, leaving him talking to Seth.

They could hear the strange, pulsating rhythm of the goombay , the Nassavian version of the calypso, as they turned along the waterfront and approached the Caravel. It faced directly onto the harbour and the terrace at the front was shaded by sea-almond trees.

Originally a cheap waterfront hotel patronized by deep-sea fishermen, sponge divers and others whose source of income was considerably more dubious, the Caravel was haunted during the season by tourists in search of atmosphere. The tariff, along with the amenities, had altered accordingly, but most of the original clientele still frequented the place.

Except for the addition of a small casino, little of the original had been changed. Old-fashioned fans still revolved in the ceiling in preference to air conditioning and the walls contained long, illuminated tanks of tropical fish.

The small dance floor was ringed by tightly packed tables, most of which were already occupied, for in the out-islands it was customary to dine early. A calypso band played on a small dais in one corner beside an archway which was covered by a bead curtain; several couples were dancing.

Manning and Morrison pushed their way through the crowd and the American ordered gin slings. Jimmy Walker was sitting at the end of the bar, a half-empty glass in front of him. He wore an R.A.F. flying jacket with the insignia removed and his old uniform cap was tilted over the young, reckless face.