Philip Kerr - The Five Year Plan (1998)

Dave said, 'Whatever I did, Al, I did for you and for your boss. Try and remember that sometime.'

Al winked unpleasantly.

'Hey, it's always on my mind.'

Dave carried his gear back to his own stateroom, put it in the drawer underneath his bed and then stretched out.

The five years he'd done in Homestead were of little consequence to Al, but Dave knew the experience would be on his own mind for the rest of his natural. He thought about the time and then he thought about the man Tony Nudelli had shot, and the ramifications that had ensued. For Dave and Dave's fucked-up family. There was no way Naked Tony was going to get away with what had happened. He had some payback coming.

But mostly he thought about Kate and what had happened the night before. Already she was on his mind in a way he'd hardly have thought possible on the strength of one day's acquaintance. First thing that morning his thoughts had been about her. It's the girls who resist that you most want to kiss. He could not recall feeling this way about a girl in years and it seemed unthinkable that in four or five days' time he might sail off into the sunrise and simply never see her again. What made it even more awkward was the certainty that she felt the same way about him. With the only difference being that she wasn't expecting him to turn thief and take off with millions of dollars of drug money. There could be no question of not going through with the caper. Even if he'd had second thoughts there was still Al to consider. But maybe there was a third possibility. How much did the captain of a small yacht make anyway? Thirty, forty thousand dollars a year? What was that next to some real money? She talked like she'd be willing at least to entertain the proposition. If there was one thing Dave liked it was a good-looking girl with lip. Of course, the timing would be critical. He could hardly tell her what he was going to do before he had done it. Suppose she objected and then gave the game away? No, he wasn't quite sure how, but he would have to check her out and make sure of her in some other way, up front. He would have to devise a fictional scenario or pose, in order to test her.

After a while Dave went up on deck, and looked toward the Carrera. There were signs that someone had been sunbathing on the roof but Kate was nowhere in sight. Al was up on the side of the Duke, talking to the Jade's captain and grinning wolfishly. Seeing Dave, he shouted down.

'Hey boss, we just got ourselves invited to a cocktail party.'

'That's nice,' said Dave, climbing up onto the wall alongside them. 'Thanks a lot, Captain Dana.'

She said, 'Eight o'clock. Everyone's invited. And please, it's Rachel. With so many captains around this ship is starting to look a little top heavy.'

Dave saw Al glance surreptitiously at Rachel's tits. Al's thoughts were an open book to Dave; certainly where they concerned the top-heavy Rachel Dana.

Dave said, 'Dana. That's a good name for the captain of an American boat. Any relation?'

'As a matter of fact he was a distant ancestor of mine,' confirmed Rachel.

Al bit his lip and said, 'Who?'

'A famous writer,' Dave said, teasing him. 'R.H. Dana.'

Al rolled his eyes and was about to make another disparaging comment about books when it suddenly dawned on him that Dave was supposed to be his boss, and this Dana guy was a writer who was related to Rachel.

'He wrote one of the best books ever about the sea,' said Dave. 'Two Years before the Mast. But you wouldn't be interested, Al. Not being much of a reader n'all.'

'Says who?'

'I have a copy in my cabin, if you'd like to borrow it,' said Rachel.

'I'd love to read it,' insisted Al.

'Maybe when you've finished reading it, you can tell Rachel what you think,' said Dave. 'Give her your literary critique.'

'Yeah, sure. Why not?'

Rachel smiled pleasantly and ushering Al onto the Jade, said, 'Well then let's go and get it, shall we?'

Later that same day, Dave walked round to the port side of the ship to check on his three target vessels.

Up on the roof of Baby Doc, one of the crewmen, with more tattoos than a Maori Hell's Angel, had the bell cover off the Tracvision antenna and was attaching a wire to the satellite dish.

'Afternoon,' said Dave.

'So I was led to believe,' said the guy, not even looking round.

'You got a problem there? Maybe I can help.'

The guy looked around slowly with a who-the-fuck-are-you-to-be-offering-meadvice expression on his smug, tough face. After a moment or two, he finished chewing the inside of his lip and said, 'We're not getting a TV signal.'

Dave smiled to himself, marking the guy down as someone with little experience of boats. He said, 'Too far away.'

'From the satellite?' The guy sounded incredulous.

'Hell no,' said Dave. 'From the coast. That thing only works up to the 200-mile limit. After that it's just white noise and space, the final frontier.'

'No kidding?'

'No kidding. Leastways until you get to Europe. But their TV's shit so don't hold your breath.'

'Shit,' said the guy. 'What are we gonna do?'

'Gotta VCR?'

'Yeah, but no tapes.'

'Not a problem.' Dave pointed toward the bow of the Duke. 'See that big boat up front? The 160-footer. That's the Jade. She's owned by Jade Films. They've got plenty of videos for loan. That is, if you like porno.'

'Does Sinatra like spaghetti?'

'Well then you're in luck. They've got a video library like a Triple X on Times Square.'

Dave was only reporting what Al had said after collecting Rachel's copy of Two Years before the Mast. His eyes had been out on stalks.

'As a matter of fact they're having a cocktail party tonight, at eight. Open invitation. Surprised you haven't heard about it.'

'Oh, we haven't been very sociable so far. Some chick came around earlier but we were all still in bed. Had a few drinks ourselves last night.' He grinned ruefully. 'More than a few.' The guy turned a little friendlier. 'Hey, you wanna drink?'

'Sure. Why not?'

'Then step aboard, my friend. Step aboard the Baby Doc.''

This was better than Dave could have hoped for. He leaped onto the rooftop alongside the tattooed guy and followed him down to the deck. He said, 'Baby Doc. What was this, the Duvalier family yacht or something?'

'Nope. Guy who owns her runs some kind of fertility clinic in Geneva. Makes a shitload of money out of women who can't have any babies. And other gynecological odds and ends. I don't think he'd ever heard of the Duvalier family or the Tonton Macoutes. Fact is I don't think he even knew that Haiti existed. Not until he started to sail it around the Caribbean.' The guy laughed and handed Dave a cold Bud. 'Found out soon enough then, of course. He's planning to refurbish her in Europe. Gonna rename her at the same time, I think. If he's got any sense. Dumb fucker.'

Dave grinned and looked around the shabby interior, wondering how much money might be concealed inside the worn leather furniture. Two big sofas and two matching easy chairs. The rest of the lounge looked suitably clinical. Like a rest room for the guys on E.R. They'd worked the story well enough and certainly picked the right boat. The guy, who told Dave his name was Keach, hadn't exaggerated. A complete refurbishment was what the Baby Doc needed. And ripping out the interior furnishings would cause no great expense.

Dave took his beer and dropped onto the sofa, hoping he might witness some discomfort under his ass or on Reach's face. The sofa felt firm enough. Maybe too firm at that. More like an office chair than a comfortable sofa. The stitching on the old leather looked a little too pristine. Like it was new. As if someone had stitched something up inside the leather. Money. Meanwhile Reach's face, with its puffy eyes