Philip Kerr - The Five Year Plan (1998)

'It's over,' said Kate. "The strike. It was on the radio yesterday afternoon.'

'Is that so? Well this trip has been very disappointing, at least from a professional POV. No jewels, no cash, not even a small Picasso. Makes you wonder what people are spending their money on these days. Security and porno, I guess. There's not much of a margin in that for someone like me, Kate.' He sighed. 'I hope things are better on the Cote d'Azure.'

'You're really serious about this?'

'I'm always serious about partnership, Kate. After last night you should know that. But for another reason too. I already have a partner. There's Al to consider.'

Kate felt herself recovering some of her poise.

'Replacing Al, well it's very flattering,' she said. 'But you know, business could sound more promising. You could try selling me the terms of our agreement. What's in it for me? What can I do? That kind of thing.'

'I've told you, that's not my style. Besides, you know the terms. Yesterday I heard you say them yourself. For richer for poorer, for better for worse. Fifty-fifty, Kate. With all my worldly goods I thee endow. What do you say?'

'You're really asking me to marry you?'

Dave forked some ham into his mouth and nodded.

Kate smiled. 'But I don't even know you.'

'People who don't know each other get married every day. I know. I read it in the paper.'

She sat down opposite him, flabbergasted. Would he be half as keen to marry her if he knew she was a Fed?

'When does your divorce come through?' he asked.

'Couple of months.'

'Get married then.'

He was enjoying her predicament. He sensed that she loved him as much as he loved her. Perhaps she even wanted to marry him and but for her being a special agent working undercover, she might have agreed. At the same time he was thinking how good it had been last night. And how comfortable he felt with her now. How reluctant he would be to leave her. Time was running out, fast. In eighteen hours he and Al were going to do the job. After that he might never see her again. The truth was that he meant what he said. If keeping her had been merely a matter of marrying her, he would have done it right away. About the only card he had left to play was that he knew what she was. A Fed. But he would only play that one when the time came to leave, when she knew more or less everything, but not before.

'You like going fast, don't you, Van?'

'I'm going to the Monaco Grand Prix, remember?'

'I thought it was the financial guy who was going, not John Robie.'

'Grand Prix is good for cat burglars. Makes a lot of noise. People don't hear much during and after a Formula One motor race. And Monte Carlo is always Monte Carlo. There're always a lot of stones around. It's like Tiffany's with a roulette wheel and a nice beach.' Dave straightened his knife and fork and reached across the table to curl a length of Kate's hair around in his fingers. She hadn't had a shower yet and she still smelt great. 'Shouldn't be too much of a problem for a girl from the Space Coast. The kind of girl who wears Allure.'

'How did you know I wore that?'

'I recognize it. It's my favorite perfume. At least it is now.'

Kate cupped his hand to her cheek and sighed wistfully. Howard didn't know one brand of perfume from cigar smoke. It was just her luck to find a guy who had fallen in love with her at first sight when she was pretending to be someone else. A guy who knew poetry. A guy who was not a selfish lover. A guy who knew perfume. A guy who was a thief and an ex-con. It was just another of the curved balls life was wont to pitch at you. She stood up.

'I still need some more time,' she said, glancing automatically at her watch. 'And I'd better be getting back. Kent gets a little funny about this kind of thing.'

Dave was hardly surprised by this information. In his experience the Feds could get funny about all kinds of things.

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Dave was reading a book when he heard a footfall on the cockpit deck.

It was the ship's electrical officer, Jock. No longer wearing white, he was wrapped in a thick woollen navy blue sweater and navy blue pants.

'Come tae look at your boat. Check your ropes are all holding up.'

'And are they?'

'For now. But if the storm catches up wi' us, we could all have some problems. Right now we're just ahead of it. Making good time. We're going like a racing dog's cock.'

'But we're still on course?'

'Oh aye. On course right enough. But if this keeps up we'll be arriving well ahead of schedule.'

Dave frowned. Being early for the rendezvous might be every bit as disastrous for the heist as being late.

'How much ahead?'

'Can't say for sure. Soon as the weather improves we'll get a better idea. By the way, how's your handset?'

Dave said nothing, distracted by the latest information. It looked like they were going to spend more time aboard the getaway boat than he had figured. From now on he would need to keep a close eye on their position with the aid of the boat's GPS receiver. About the same size as a cellular telephone, the GPS could accurately tell you where you were, in what direction you were heading, and how fast you were going: every time you turned on the receiver it worked out its location by tracking the signals broadcast by satellites in the GPS constellation until it had enough information to determine its own relative position.

Jock repeated his question.

'Oh, still working OK, thanks. You want a beer?'

'Why not? Might as well be wet inside as well as out.'

Dave glanced out of the window. Rain lashed the roof of the Juarista and even behind the walls of the Duke, the boat's deck felt more like a surfboard. He handed Jock a Corona. 'Right,' he said. 'It's like Moby Dick out there.'

'A wee bit tricky walking along the ship's walls,' Jock admitted. 'But not half as bad as we thought. The skipper was right. It should blow itself out soon enough.'

Jock drained half the beer from the bottle. Hearing a loud retching noise from the bowels of Dave's boat, he glanced at the stairwell. He grinned slightly and said, 'Someone's Uncle Dick, are they?'

Dave frowned momentarily as his ears and understanding tried to penetrate the Scotsman's speech. Finally it dawned on him.

'Yeah. It's Al. He's not a good sailor.' He seemed unconcerned, although he was growing worried by the thought that he might end up tackling the score on his own. The only possible benefit of the bad weather was that the crews of the Russkie boats might be feeling as sick as Al.

'But you're all right?' said Jock.

'I'm fine.' Dave said. 'You wouldn't happen to have something I could give him, would you? I've tried Kwells and other shit like that, but they don't seem to help.'

Jock finished his beer and pulled a face.

'That stuffs for kids,' he said. 'What other shit have you tried?'

'Antihistamine. Didn't work either. Just made him sleep for a bit.'

'When was his last dose of that?'

'Hours ago.'

'Well, if it's me, I take hyoscine. Blocks the para-sympathetic autonomic nervous system. Stuffs commonly used as a preanesthetic to prevent reflex vagal stimulation of the heart.'

'There's nothing sympathetic about Al's nervous system,' said Dave. 'I'm not even sure he's got a heart.' He lit a cigarette. 'What are you, some kind of doctor as well?'

'On this ship, aye. My father was a veterinary surgeon. I learned a lot from him.' He shrugged. 'Bastards on this ship are all animals anyway, so it makes no bloody difference.' He took one of the cigarettes Dave had offered him, and lit it quickly. 'Does your pal suffer from glaucoma, at all?'

Dave had no idea, but he shook his head anyway, sensing that Jock was about to prescribe something useful. The hyoscine perhaps.

'Aye, well I've got some Scopoderm. It's good stuff. Not available over the counter.' He pinched the cigarette from the corner of his mouth and inhaled through clenched teeth. 'Expensive, though. If you know what I mean.'