Chapter Twenty

I approached customs with a suitcase in one hand and the other dragged behind me on its wheels, hoping that I exuded the required atmosphere of nonchalance to ensure no suspicions were raised. I placed it on the wooden rack next to the counter and produced my British passport and my international pilot’s licence from inside my beige tropical cotton jacket.

The customs official in a white uniform took my documents. He glanced at my pilot’s licence, which he then slid back to me over the counter.

Still holding my open passport, he said. “Good afternoon, Mr. van Onselen. Welcome to the Caymans.” He then smiled. “I presume you’re not seeking or have already got employment?”

“No,” I said and then added, “I’m just taking a break from flying. They’ll pick me up on their way back from the States.” I nodded in the direction of the Citation.

He gave the aircraft a brief glance. “Have you anything to declare?”

“No.” I shook my head.

”Thank you, sir, have a nice stay,” he said dismissing me, and I moved onto the next counter where I paid the required airport and tourist taxes.

I stepped out of the airport building with an overwhelming feeling of relief and realized that I was perspiring profusely. A number of taxis of all makes, including some London cabs, were lined against the kerb. I approached a British Ford Cortina, the driver popping the trunk in anticipation at my approach. I dropped my two cases into it, and then slid onto the rear passenger seat.

On the flight from Eros, I had carefully studied a roadmap of Grand Cayman. I was on the lookout for a tourist village that had more than one road of access to ensure that I had multiple escape routes. Trichardt was still foremost in mind.

I decided on Bodden Town, a small town on the southern coast. It was about five miles from the airport, but at least it had a number of roads leading into it.

The taxi driver had a caramel brown complexion and spoke English with what I thought was a Jamaican twang. He was clearly of mixed blood and probably one of the inhabitants who could trace his ancestors back to when pirates and exiles from the Spanish Inquisition of the 16th century had sought refuge on the islands.

To obtain permanent residence on the islands was virtually impossible, as the island’s government only issued work permits after proof was provided of work found. This could not be done while on the island but had to be concluded before you arrived. The permit is restricted to a period of seven years and then there is no rollover policy. The non-citizen then has to leave and will never be allowed to return as a worker. Therefore, almost all citizens come from families with a long history on the islands. The government is extremely reluctant to allow any form of immigration. The islands are a virtual paradise - a good reason to keep the population manageable.

“Where to, boss?” the taxi driver asked.

“Well, I actually should find myself a car to hire...”

The driver interrupted me.

“Don’t you go doing that, my man! For a retainer, I’ll be available all the time. Business is slow at the moment, I’d be helping you, and you’d be helpin’ me,” he said turning around to look at me with a huge grin on his face, flashing a large mouth of brilliant white teeth.

I contemplated his proposal for a moment.

He stared at me probably wondering what I could afford and what amount would scare me away.

“A hundred and fifty a day,” he offered.

Make it one thirty,” I replied tartly.

“One forty,” he countered

“Done,” I agreed. “Now take me to a hotel where I would have more than one road on which to escape.”

Again, he stared at me in the rear view mirror.

“Escape, Boss? Escape, you gotta problem?” he asked. “Then I’m your man. But if anything happens and we got’ta play Keystone cops, then it’ll cost more.”

“No, not cops. There’s some people who don’t like me. If they pitch and we run, I’ll pay handsomely.”

“You on the run?”

“Well, yes and no, but not from cops - it’s just a personal thing. As I said, they don’t like me. I know something I shouldn’t.”

He laughed. “That happens a lot around here, I’ve had that before. Okay, again, where to?”

“Take me to a good hotel, on the beach with a few escape roads - we don’t want to have only one road to escape on and we must be able to get to the airport quickly Bodden Town would be a good place.”

“I know just the place. The manager is a friend of mine; you can trust him. It’s not the greatest but it’s squeaky clean, the food and service is good and the bar is the best in town. It’s in Bodden Town just right for a quick getaway.”

“Bodden Town is good,” I nodded in confirmation. “That’ll do,”

The building was old and needed a coat of paint. The façade was typical British colonial with a large portico resting on four pillars over the wide front entrance. Above the portico, a neon sign spelt the words ‘The Colony’. There actually were two entrances, the main entrance led to the hotel’s reception, the other to a bar, which could also be accessed from the inner hotel. In contrast to the other buildings, The Colony was set slightly back from the street, and while the bed-and-breakfasts and hotels others only where provided with a narrow cobbled sidewalk, here a wide concrete pathway led from the street to the main entrance. Trees, bushes, and a few palms bordered the pathway with flowerbeds lining it, they bursting with tropical flowers in a profusion of colours. A narrow concrete road to the left of the building led to the rear where an area was set aside for parking.

“Call me Bishop,” the taxi driver insisted. He drove to the area behind the building and took me through a back entrance to reception where he introduced me to Melville his friend.

They whispered amongst themselves for a minute, and then Melville approached me, a tall black man dressed in white slacks and Hawaiian shirt.

“Mr van Ansillin,” he said lending the pronunciation of my name a new meaning. “I’ve got just the room for you on de top floor. Ya’re only a few yards away from de the fire escape.” He grinned apologetically. “You don’t mind if I just call ya ‘sir’? Ya’re name is difficult.”

“It’s fine with me.”

“Okay mon, just give me ya’ passport and just sign here. Rules say, I have’ta keep de book.”

I realized that he was keeping my passport.

“I may need that in a hurry,” I protested.

“Sure mon, I understand. Not to worry, it’ll always be right here if ya need it.”

”Okay,” I said dubiously, and paid up front for three days. I had to include twenty per cent accommodation tax. I also bought some phone cards from the reception. Melville snapped his fingers and a black bellhop appeared from nowhere and relieved me of my cases; he led me up two flights of stairs to the second floor, which was also the top floor.

As Bishop had said, it was squeaky clean with a large double bed, a tiled en suite bathroom complete with bath and shower cubicle. The linen was snow white. Two large oil paintings of local scenes depicting the islands, the sea, palms, and sky adorned the whitewashed walls. Large double French doors led to a balcony that overlooked the garden on the side of the building. The bellhop placed the cases on a wooden suitcase rack and beamed me a smile when I tipped him somewhat extravagantly.

“Thank you, boss.” It seemed all visitors were bosses in the town.

Bishop had been standing in the doorway.

“Boss, if you need me I’ll be down stairs; my car will remain parked in the parking area. I’ll be with Melville. He’ll keep me fed.”

“Thanks, Bishop - I appreciate your help,” I said and he left.

I closed the door and set the lock, throwing myself on the bed. I fell asleep within a minute.

I awoke around nine in the evening to the sound of Jamaican music drifting up on the breeze that blew in through the open window. I got up and slightly closed the windows and returned to lie down again. I switched on the bedside light and stared up at the ceiling, contemplating the events of the last two days. It was obvious that Trichardt was onto to us and I was pretty sure that he would arrive on the island soon, if he was’nt already here.

For the last few months, the cash and diamonds had taken up little of my time or thoughts. Now, things had changed; there were moments when I seriously doubted the wisdom of our actions and thought we had made a mistake, I even at times fleetingly considering abandoning our ill-gotten gains. But I also realized it was too late - Trichardt was not going to relent. Yes, possession was more than nine tenths of the law, but we could not go running off to the police and lay charges against him if anything happened. But neither could he. Morally, these probably belonged to him and he was out to get these back no matter what it took, and it seemed that if this resulted in a few deaths, then that was what he was prepared to risk. In fact, it was simple; whomever had possession legally owned the cash and gems.

I swung my feet off the bed, shook my head to stop my mind wondering and stripped off my clothes. A shower, a drink and a good meal was what I needed. I also had to get hold of Maria; maybe she was already on the island. I had no idea what her movements had been during the last few days.

I had changed into beige slacks, a colourful Hawaiian shirt I would normally not want to be seen dead in and white slip-on moccasins without socks. I hoped I looked the usual tourist, mixing financial business with pleasure.

A drink was what I needed to start the evening and I strode into the bar, which was crowded with a mixture of tourist and locals. The sound of steel-drum Jamaican music pulsated through the room.

There was a gap amongst the patrons at the bar. I slid onto the sole free stool, got a barman’s attention, and asked for a bottle of the local beer.

I was just taking the first sip when there was a kiss on my cheek; I jerked round and looked into Maria’s dark eyes.

“I wondered when you were going to come down for a drink.”

“My God! Where on earth did you come from?” I said in shock.

She took a stool next to me and placed her hand on my thigh.

“Actually I’ve been here a while. I watched you arrive at the airport and saw you leave the plane with your luggage. I followed your taxi.” She lowered her voice and brought her mouth close to my ear. “I’m so glad to see you again - I missed you.”

“How did you know when I’d arrive?”

“Surely you haven’t forgotten who I work for?” She laughed

“Of course. It seems I can’t do a damn thing without you knowing.” I retorted.

“God, you don’t know how hard it’s been done having you around.”

I was about to say something similar to her and then thought better of it, remembering my discussions with Francine. Already I was in trouble: I realized that nothing was going to be simple between this woman and me.

“Can I get you a drink?” I asked.

“No. Bring yours - I want to introduce you to somebody.”

I followed her through the room to a corner table, which already had an occupant seated at it. The man was dressed in a dark suit with tie, his complexion pale, like somebody who did not often see the sun. I guessed him to be in his thirties, with dark hair, this cut short and combed straight back against his skull showing the first touches of grey. He didn’t look like and Island man.

“This is Marcel de Haes from London,” Maria said. We shook hands.

The man smiled. “Actually, I’m Belgium and am from Bruxelles,” he said with what seemed a mild French accent. His accent may have been French but I suddenly dawned on me that he was Flemish. He could probably understand my Afrikaans!

As we sat, Maria took my hand under the table. I could not very well pull it away. Christ, I thought, things were developing rapidly again.

“I’ve brought Marcel with me from Europe. We can trust him completely - I’ll personally vouch for him. I thought it best that we convert the stones to cash while we still can and get the money deposited in the bank in the Caymans. There’s no better place to keep the money.”

I pondered what she suggested and finally agreed that it was a good idea. We would then be able to secret the monies into various accounts in our individual names.

“How long will this transaction take before the monies are here?” I asked.

“Mijneer, it is simple. Once I’ve valued the stones and we agree on the figure, the money can be in an account here in the Caymans within a few hours, and I will take the stones,” he said. “Be assured, Mijneer, I guarantee absolute discretion and the best price you’ll get. You will appreciate that the stones you possess are considered to be ‘blood diamonds” in the trade and there are certain restrictions on these. I’m actually, how should I put it...., guilty of improper procedure.”

I understood. I needed no further convincing and as far as I was concerned the sooner this was finalised the better. Maria had vouched for him and I considered her commitment and integrity in this matter to be beyond reproach. I suggested that we retire to the room.

On the way up the stairs, I asked Maria whether she had seen a South African registered Learjet on the apron. She said no.

De Haes carried a rather large black briefcase similar to those boxes with a handle one sees lawyers with these days. Once in the room he opened this and extracted a small scale, which he set up on the long dressing table against the wall opposite the bed. He also withdrew two squares of black velvet, two long tweezers, and a special table lamp, which folded open, a calculator, a bound notepad, and two jeweller’s loupes.

I zipped open the suitcase on the rack and withdrew the pouches containing the diamonds, placing them on the dressing table.

“My God,” de Haes said his surprise evident. “I’ve never had to value a fortune like this in a hotel room before. This will take a while. Please be patient.”

It took three hours for de Haes to complete his task, as he meticulously studied each stone with a loupe clamped to his eye. He then laboriously recorded the stones’ weights and took notes on their quality.

Finally, he replaced the stones and packed his equipment back into his briefcase. Maria and I watched him in silence. He excused himself and went into the bathroom. A while later he emerged wiping his hand on a towel.

He spoke without preamble.

“Twenty million US, that’s my one and only offer.”

I heard Maria gasp. I was bowled over - it was a fortune, even if we really were unable to verify the amount. If he had said fifteen our reaction would be the same!

Maria and I looked at each other, both knowing full well that we had no alternative but to accept, circumstances being what they were.

She nodded.

“We accept,” I said.

“Believe me when I say that under the circumstances this is a fair offer,” De Haes confirmed, as we all shook hands.

“What do we do now?” I asked. I did not want to keep the diamonds any longer than was necessary, what with our friend Trichardt probably due to arrive at any moment.

“I represent the biggest diamond corporation in the world and I can, right now, issue you an official international company receipt and a promise to deposit the amount to an account of your choosing within twenty-four hours, provided we have been furnished with the banking details,” De Haes said crisply, removing another book from his briefcase.

Twenty million dollars on a slip of paper? We must be mad, I thought, no matter from where the man came. You don’t do that! However, before I could say anything Maria spoke.

“That’s fine, Marcel, but you issue the receipt now, I mean a company receipt, and take the diamonds immediately. If you lose them once you’ve left here you’re bound by the receipt.”

“Ms Garcia, all those conditions are contained in the document - you have nothing to fear. Presumably you had my company and I investigated before you chose to impart a transaction of such immense value to us?” he retorted.

Maria nodded.

I realized why she was so trusting - It had to be the CIA again - she’d used her work to set this up. Clever girl!

Both de Haes and Maria left, taking the diamonds with them. Maria promised to meet me outside the Union Bank of Switzerland in George Town at nine fifteen the next morning. We all were exhausted; it was well after three in the morning.

I must confess that once the pair had left I was filled with doubt and wondered whether I’d not just been taken!

Bishop dropped me off at the bank and within a minute or two; Maria arrived in a taxi, dressed in a smart black and white business suit. This contrasted with my tourist attire, not that anyone seemed to notice.

We entered the bank and went to the new accounts section where we applied to open three accounts, producing certified copies of all identification papers and passports. Gavin’s account was being opened in abstentia.I had brought the total amount of bank notes with me in the black travel case, and we instructed the bank to split the amount in three and deposit a third in each individual account. Once Maria had all the account details to hand, she requested that these be faxed to de Haes, at a number, which she provided. On receipt of these de Haes would deposit a third of the diamond transaction to each individual account. Each of us would be nearly ten million US dollars richer by the end of the day.

We left the bank and slid into Bishop’s car. Maria immediately wrapped me in a warm, passionate kiss. I may have hesitated for a brief second, but taken up with the euphoria of the moment what with the buzz and success of our dealings, I responded.

We were millionaires and we had done nothing illegal in the process!

“We did it, we did it!” she shrieked.

I grinned. I was overcome with an immense feeling of relief; apart from being rich, I no longer had to lug an unbelievable fortune around pretending that the case contained no more than my personal effects. And in addition, the spoils were no longer within Trichardt’s reach.

“I know we did!” I replied. I did not want to say more with Bishop listening to every word.

“Sweetheart, this calls for a celebration. How about a champagne breakfast?” she said, leaning her body against me.

Bishop smiled happily. “I know just the place for that mon,” he said.

Maria and I looked at each other. “Take us there,” we both said simultaneously, and then broke out in further laughter of sheer relief and joy.

The exhilaration I felt was unbelievable; and throwing caution to the wind I extracted two hundred dollars in notes from my wallet and handed it across to Bishop.

“Bishop,” I said. “This moment’s very special. Take your girlfriend or whoever out to-night. The treat’s on us.”

His surprise was total.

“What! You two are getting married?”

We both burst out laughing again. Perhaps silly but happy.

Chapter Twenty-One

Trichardt fumed. The police officers in the car had not been sympathetic and initially were not prepared to be persuaded, insisting that the law demanded that for an infraction such as this, they had no alternative but to arrest the occupants and impound the car. Driving on the freeway on the islands against the flow of traffic could not be overlooked, even if no accidents resulted. A good deal of wheedling and accompanied by the flash of a large amount in US dollars finally persuaded the officers to relent. They released them with a stern warning. The officers drove away with more than a month’s salary each.

“Jesus Christ!” Trichardt shouted at nobody in particular as everyone tried hard to avoid his look. “The bastards!” Again, van Onselen and his mob have outsmarted us. What’s wrong with you people - can’t you do anything right?

“But sir...” That was as far as Rockell got.

“Fuck, Rockell. Don’t fucking ‘but sir’ me! This is your cock-up and you’d better start thinking fast about fixing it. The first thing you do is find out whether they all left on the plane or whether somebody decided to stay. One thing you can be certain of - their decision to refuel in the Caymans was not by chance. This is where I would’ve salted everything away in the banks if I could - it’s as close to Swiss banking as you can get. Christ! I should have van Onselen and his partner working for me instead of having to put up with a bunch of incompetents like you!” he shouted, flecks of spittle spraying from his mouth.

Nobody dared say a word, they all seemingly busy with something or staring out of the window at the passing scenery. The car was on its way back to the airport.

Only when they swept into the parking area did Rockell dare speak again.

”I’ll go check and find out how many left on the plane,” he said and quickly stepped out of the car. The others remained seated, the engine running, and the air-conditioning at full blast. Trichardt harrumphed and then lit a cigar.

It took twenty minutes for Rockell to return, by which time Trichardt was on the verge of losing control again.

“What the fuck took so long?” he demanded.

“At first the customs and tower people wouldn’t tell me anything,” Rockell said.

“You should have paid up front. You’re an idiot - this is the bloody Caribbean.”

Rockell tried to ignore the outburst.

“One male stayed behind... that’s what I was told.”

“I thought so. Now, let’s find the bastard. I’m sure it’s my friend van Onselen. This time he’s a dead man even if I don’t get my money back,” he said with the hatred and scorn of a Mafioso don whose deal has gone wrong. “Find us some guns. Gerber, if you kill him with your bare hands I’ll give you twenty thousand when we get home.” He turned to the pilot. “You stay with the aircraft and be ready for an immediate take-off even if this operation takes a few days... understand?”

The pilot nodded his assent.

At Trichardt’s insistence, Rockell brought a few tourist advertising brochures from the airport. Perusing these, Trichardt chose an upmarket beach hotel comprised of separate self-contained units, dotted on each side of the hotel along the length of the beach close to the shore. The main hotel building housed all other amenities, dining room, lounge, bars, and large swimming pool with bar complete with an outside parquet-floored dance area. They had hired an additional car and Gerber used this to disappear into the old town quarter. He returned hours later but in possession of three side arms, a nine-millimetre Heckler and Koch, a Star .38 revolver and another nine millimetre, a Beretta. He was shy on ammunition but nobody thought there would be much shooting. Three full magazines were considered sufficient.

It was eight in the evening and Trichardt, after a few whiskeys had worked most of the edge off his temper. They all sat at the poolside bar. They had changed and were now dressed in a manner that befitted the Caribbean. Tourists crowded the bar, predominantly from the States and United Kingdom, most obviously affluent: the Caymans were definitely not a holiday destination for the poor. The upmarket hotel ensured a clientele from the higher echelons of society, with the women often young and beautiful, their holiday, and casual wear chosen from the fashion houses of New York and Europe.

The more elderly usually chose to sit and mix at the tables on the terrace, where they were served by waiters, the music here more sedate and they guaranteed some privacy.

Trichardt turned to Rockell and Gerber.

“I believe that the American woman, that Maria Garcia, is here as well. She’s mixed up in this somehow. If they’ve stashed the cash in the bank, then I don’t see van Onselen having done that alone; he would have somebody with him. She’s my best bet.” He paused. “In fact, I think they may have already converted the diamonds to cash - you can’t bank diamonds. That would be the way to secure it. That ensures that we’ll never get it back unless they give it to us,” he growled. Nobody was about to argue.

“Boss, I may have something,” Gerber said with some apprehension. “When I was looking for the guns I met somebody who I think could help us. He’s a local but seems to be quite a big wheel, but I’m sure it’ll cost.”

Trichardt turned round to look at the man. Gerber was huge, probably weighing around two hundred and fifty pounds. His face was round, bordering on flabby. He had little hair left; just a few strands of blonde crowned the top of his head although the growth appeared normal along the sides and his ears. He sported a bushy blonde moustache. The arms that stuck out of the sleeves of his beach shirt were as thick as a normal man’s thighs; they also covered with a sheen of blonde hair. His nose was flat and slightly crooked, a legacy of too many fights. His lips were thick. He was not a handsome sight.

“Fuck the price - just find them. Start doing it now,” Trichardt snarled. Gerber poured the last of his drink down his throat, slid off the stool taking the proffered car keys from Rockell, and walked off through the sand, disappearing into the dark.

“Rockell, listen up. I want both of them wasted. Do you understand? Whether we do it or we find somebody else to it, I don’t care,” Trichardt said to the younger man.

“What about the cops? Some of them are British - you don’t fool around with these guys.”

Trichardt brushed Rockell’s protestations aside. “On this island there’s nothing to link us with them and by the time they find anything out, we’ll be long gone.”

The next morning Trichardt and his men sat down to an early breakfast. By island standards, it was too early, and the dining room and terrace were deserted. Gerber told them of his attempts to secure the assistance of the Cayman underworld.

“I was introduced to a Thomas Carruthers,” Gerber said, “an islander who’s as black as coal and is said to be the crime kingpin on the island - drugs, prostitution, and gambling all fall into his domain. It was said that he has a whole damn network on the islands -, people in hotels, taxi-drivers, prostitutes and their pimps. I paid him handsomely, upfront of course, with a promise of more if they find our guys. The word’s now out on the streets.”

Trichardt nodded his approval. “Right, all we have to do is wait. Act like tourists; find yourselves some women. Hell, that shouldn’t be a problem; there are enough of them around. But when I need you, you better be ready.”

The warning in his voice was not lost on them.

Twenty-Two

It was after ten when I was awakened by a knock on the door. Christ, I thought, could these people not read: I had hung a ‘Do not disturb’ sign on the door! The knocking persisted. I grabbed a bath towel lying across the end of the bed, wrapped it around me, and walked to the door mumbling under my breath. Irritably I flung the door open, only to be confronted by a smiling Maria, her dark hair cascading down the one side of her face, a pair of fancy aviator sunglasses perched on her nose.

She wore a pair of shorts that certainly lived up to their name! She was all beautifully tanned legs and shoulders. Well, except that her colourful blouse was tied below her breasts revealing what I thought to be an extraordinary amount of cleavage. I didn’t know where to look.

“Morning handsome,” she teased with a smile. “You seemed to be appropriately dressed for a bit of fun but I won’t kiss you. God, you’re still asleep, go brush your teeth - I’ll arrange for coffee to be brought up.”

While she was busy with the phone, I stepped into the shower and then brushed my teeth. The coffee was not long in coming. She poured us both a cup - it was just what I needed.

“I’m not sure whether I want you or the beach,” Maria said playfully, looking over the rim of her cup at me.

I waved my hand dismissing her suggestion.

“Let’s hit the beach now, the wind is bound to start blowing.” The Caymans are slap-bang in the trade winds - it usually blows.

She agreed. Again, she busied herself on the phone while I dressed. When we passed reception, a bellhop already stood waiting with two large baskets containing everything you would need for a connoisseur’s picnic. Lobster salad, fresh baked rolls, an assortment of cold meats and dessert in plastic containers. In addition, there was a large insulated container packed with beer, wine and a few sodas, all surrounded with ice. They were heavy but the bellhop, with some difficulty, carried them out to Bishop’s car. We left her rental car in the car park.

Bishop said that he had just the beach spot for us. When I saw it, I had to concede that it truly was a paradise; a wide long beach rimmed by tall palms, white sand, the sea with a fair amount of wave activity, just enough to make a swim in the warm ocean great fun. I asked Bishop to join us

“No,” he said, “I’d rather to go home for a while. I want to give my wife the windfall before I spend it!”

”Okay just be back between three or four,” I laughed. Before he left he produced two beach folding chairs and an umbrella from his car’s trunk.

Our nearest neighbours on the beach were at least a hundred yards from us - our privacy was virtually complete.

Bishop had hardly left when Maria stripped down to her bathing costume. It was so brief I looked around to see whether any other bathers were nearby. Presumably, it was a bikini, but I thought it more like one of those kinky outfits porn stars wear in blue movies - pieces of thong and string and three triangular patches of light blue material that barely covered her nipples and her pubic triangle. Like I said, she is tall for a woman, and in this, she was a goddess.

I had no thoughts for Francine; she was lost in the deepest recesses of my mind.

Maria spread an enormous beach-towel on the sand and from her bag produced a bottle of suntan lotion, which she handed me, the purpose clear.

“Rub it on me,” she said lying down on the towel and undoing the string of her costume top.

I dropped a dollop of the cream on her spine, and she arched her back with a small yelp at the coldness. I proceeded to rub the cream into her skin, moving down to her legs. As my hands moved above her knees they would stray to her inner thighs; she raised her derriere provocatively. Then she turned over and I knelt at her side, my hands working the lotion. She lay facing me with a cheek resting on her hands, staring at my crotch.

“My God, Peter. What’s happening to you?” she whispered and then giggled.

“I know!” I croaked aware of my raging erection. “When did you say Bishop would be back?”

She brushed a hand over my crotch and laughed.

As predicted, the wind freshened considerably as the afternoon wore on. As its strength intensified, it started to lift the beach sand, blowing this a few inches above the surface of the beach. It was uncomfortable, but precisely at three, Bishop appeared.

“You’re a Godsend,” Maria said wanting to leave the beach for the past hour or so.

With his assistance, we loaded everything into his Cortina, and then we both slid onto the backseat.

“Where to, folks?” he said in his Jamaican accent, having to shout over the sound of the oil-drum beat of calypso music which blasted from the car’s speakers.

“Turn down the bloody sound!” I shouted. I looked at Maria; she mouthed ‘your place’.

“Take us to my hotel,” I said. Maria took my hand and placed it between her thighs; a promise of what was to come.

The bellhops took the baskets and box, and Maria and I rapidly climbed the stairs.

Once inside the room and the door latched, we stripped off our clothes and squeezed into the shower turning the water full on. The cubicle was soon enveloped in steam. We kissed passionately. Soon I was cupping her breasts and kissing her nipples. Her hand slid down to my groin. Not bothering to dry off, we collapsed on the bed. Driven by overwhelming passion and physical attraction we were soon on a wild careering trip that ended in a shuddering, gasping grand finale.

Afterwards she lay turned towards me, her head cradled in my arm. We were both drenched in a mixture of shower water and perspiration, my lungs drawing in and blowing out air like a blacksmith’s bellows.

A vision of Francine flashed before me, brief but sufficient to awaken the guilt that now slowly began to permeate my conscience.

“What are you thinking?” Maria murmured against my chest.

What could I tell her?

“Nothing,” I said.

“I know you lust after me, but do you love her?”

Every time I was with this woman, I learnt something new. No doubt, her training as an undercover operative had a great deal to do with it, but she was a woman of considerable mental strength, and grim determination when the need arose. She never revealed any weakness, but now I detected some vulnerability. The truly beautiful woman was as complex as we all are when it came to matters of the heart. God, what a bloody snarl-up, I thought.

Did I love her? I really didn’t know, but I knew that I never wanted to lose her.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“Do you love me?” she whispered.

“I don’t know that either, but I know that when you’re not here, I miss you. Christ, you won’t believe me,” I said, “but sometimes I actually ache for you.”

She giggled. “That sounds more like sex than love to me.” She giggled again.

“I don’t doubt the sex bit,” I replied with a laugh, then took her in my arms, and kissed her passionately.

We woke at about seven and decided to have a light dinner in the hotel dining room.

The meal was a set menu, starting with soup, grilled line fish, a main course consisting of braised beef and then dessert. It was standard fare but exceptionally good, as close to good home cooking as you can get.

I noticed that Maria was unusually subdued.

“What’s bugging you?” I asked.

“Nothing really. Well, that’s not quite true. Trichardt’s still around. We must not to forget that. I know him and I can tell you he’s now so pissed off he’s deadly dangerous.” She paused. “Do you know what I mean when I say dangerous? He wishes us dead! The man’s a psychopath.”

I nodded. I knew - I had not forgotten the last encounter. However, considering what we’d done to him, calling him a psychopath probably was about right. I wasn’t about to tell her that.

“I would love to move in with you, but that wouldn’t be wise. It’s better I keep to my hotel and we just get together when needed.” I had to agree with that as well. “I’ve got something in my bag that I need to give you,” she whispered quietly across the table.

I just looked at her. I knew it was a gun.

“Do you think that’s necessary?” I asked not entirely pleased.

“Damn right it is!” she said sternly. “And don’t hesitate to use it. I presume you do know how to use it?”

Again, I nodded. She excused herself: I ordered another round of coffee and two Countreau liqueurs.

She returned and sat down.

“Just as I thought - his aircraft is still parked on the apron. He’s still here on the island. He’s looking for us.” I could only assume that she had phoned somebody.

This did complicate matters. Surely, Trichardt knew that by now we would have the money and diamonds in a safe place where he definitely could not get hold of them. I could only conclude that he was still here in the Caymans to deal with us.

“Bet your ass,” she snapped. “That’s what’s happening. Let’s be careful.” She emptied her liqueur glass. “I’m leaving right after we finish here. They’ve got an excellent maritime museum in George Town - I’ll meet you there at ten tomorrow morning.”

I escorted her to the car, we both carefully scrutinizing the car park from end to end as well as the driveway. When certain the coast was clear, she got into the vehicle and handed me an object wrapped in a cloth.

“Your gun, it’s a Sauer 9mm automatic with a spare magazine, both full.”

I took it. It wasn’t too heavy. I jammed it into the back of my pants, my floral shirt covering the weapon. I kissed her briefly on the lips.

“Remember,” she said. ‘Don’t hesitate to shoot!”

Christ, what was I supposed to do when the Cayman police arrived? The movies always show the shooters getting away before the cops arrive; in reality, I knew the police usually nabbed them. If I shot somebody, what would I say and what excuse would I have for carrying an unlicensed gun? This could only spell serious trouble.

I made my way back to my room.

I realized that we had to resolve our problems here on this island. To return to South Africa with Trichardt still in pursuit would be foolish. Once home, he could bring all his ingenuity to bear including the assistance of his contacts in BOSS. I had no idea when Gavin was due to return, but he was to contact Maria as soon as he had arranged his departure and had an idea of his approximate arrival in the Caymans again.

I could not shake off a feeling of foreboding. There was no doubt in my mind that Trichardt had not finished with us yet. The price paid by de Haes for the diamonds had to be rock bottom, with him surely taking full advantage of the predicament in which he found us. The degree of subterfuge we applied to the transaction; bringing him to the Caymans, the request for the utmost confidence and being aware that he probably was the only buyer approached must have left him convinced that this was not a simple above-board negotiation. There had to be something sinister. Therefore, his ‘take it or leave it’ stance on the transaction.

Trichardt would have been in a far better position to negotiate a higher price from his regular buyers. The value of the stones was substantial, probably at least another half more than we were paid, if not more. Not for a moment did I believe he would walk away from his loss without the satisfaction of retribution.

There was also the fact that he and his associates had a reputation to uphold. I doubted whether he was the sole beneficiary in these transactions; he had to have financial connections in the higher echelons of the government and they would not allow others to make fools of them. Yes, the hawks in the South African government were under pressure from the more enlightened members of the governing Nationalist Party, but they still had a stranglehold on the power base. They were the ultimate power in the country - nobody would ever be permitted to forget that.

The money might be safe but the three of us were not.

It suddenly dawned on me that Gavin and the two women should not return to the island until the direct threat Trichardt and company posed was removed or they had departed the island.

Of course, this did not mean we would be able to handle the situation in South Africa any better!

Chapter Twenty-Two

Melville, the hotel manager found himself in a quandary. He had received word through the underground grapevine to be on the lookout for one Peter van Onselen. With the name came a description. He realized immediately that this was the single male guest ensconced in a room on the top floor, the room nearest to the fire escape.

If Thomas Carruthers was looking for him, he doubted whether this bode well for his guest. Whenever Carruthers was after a man, it was invariably bad news for the individual. And Melville was employed by Carruthers and occasionally dispensed drugs and prostitutes on behalf of Carruthers’s organization. He was paid well for his services and while he may not have taken an oath, it was clearly understood in underworld circles that his total allegiance was automatic. He had no alternative but to report van Onselen’s whereabouts, but he could at least discreetly have a warning whispered in van Onselen’s ear.

Men’s minds work in strange ways; Melville was not averse to receiving ill-gotten gains but was sufficiently naïve to believe he was a man of conscience.

Bishop’s Cortina was parked in the rear parking area under a huge tree. He walked over to the car and stood by the open window.

“Morning, my man. How’s things?” he asked, looking round to see whether he had drawn any other attention.

Lowering the newspaper, Bishop greeted his friend.

“Are you still working for that South African?” Melville asked casually.

“Yep, I’m waiting for him now.”

“Well, my friend, Carruthers has suddenly taken an interest in his whereabouts. Please..., you never heard this from me. Just mention it to him,” Melville said, seeing the immediate look of concern that crossed Bishop’s face.

“Mon, he’s a good man,” Bishop said, clearly unhappy.

“I thought you’d say that,” Melville replied and walked back to the hotel.

Bishop knew Carruthers and his minions well enough although he was in no way affiliated to him. He knew that to cross the man would certainly cost him his job, if not his life, but then he decided the van Onselen had treated him decently and Melville was obviously expecting him to do something. If van Onselen suddenly took off, how could they lay the blame at his feet?

Twenty-Three

Van Onselen exited the hotel at nine-thirty and climbed into the taxi, greeting Bishop with a warm smile.

“Take me to the Maritime Museum,” he said. “Did you have a good day yesterday?”

Bishop drove off, ignoring the question.

“What’s got into you this morning?” van Onselen asked.

Bishop took a deep breath.

“Listen mon, just between you and me, I need to tell you that somebody’s looking for you and they will know where you are within the next hour or so. I don’t know what it is all about. Just don’t ask me any questions...please.”

It was as if somebody had kicked me in the gut. I knew they would find me, but I had never imagined it would be so soon. And I certainly did not expect to receive warning of this from the taxi-driver. Only hours, he said. Well that left me with very little time.

I stared at the driver. Although he hardly knew me, he had done me an enormous favour, which would could lead to them taking some form of retaliatory action against him if they ever figured out that he had been the source of the warning. These small islands were very closely knit communities, I was sure secrets were difficult to keep.

”I need you to do me a favour,” I said, thinking quickly. ”Remove all my belongings from my room. Do this immediately after you drop me at the museum, and then return to the museum. My room’s paid up to date. Do you think you could do that?”

“I can’t do that.” I could see the fear in his eyes.

I knew better than to ask why. Christ, I thought, this creates a predicament. Trichardt had somehow acquired the help of the island’s underworld: that could be the only logical explanation.

Suddenly I had an idea.

“Drop me now, next to another taxi. It would help if you could find one that thinks like you. Don’t say anything and don’t give him my name. I have your number, I’ll contact you later. Rest assured; I’ll honour my promise.”

Bishop merely nodded his head, the taxi turning left and then moving at increased speed. Within a minute, we screeched to a halt next to a stationery taxi parked at the kerb. No word was spoken.

I slid out of the Cortina into the Vauxhall and told the driver to return to “The Colony” where he was to wait for me.

I rushed into the hotel, flung everything into my suitcase and bag, and immediately left by the fire escape; I never saw Melville or anyone else. I spent no more than a few minutes in the hotel.

Flinging my suitcase and bag on the backseat, I slid in next to these.

“Go! The Maritime Museum,” I said with a hint of fear in my voice.

We sped off again.

We arrived at the museum a few minutes after ten. I told the driver to stow my baggage to the trunk and wait. I bounded up the stairs two at time to the entrance. I found Maria standing just within the main foyer, she virtually inconspicuous in the shadows.

I grabbed her by the arm. “Come, let’s get out of here... now!” I said fiercely and pulled her towards the entrance. She immediately read the expression of deep concern and fear on my face. She reacted instantly to the strident urgency in my voice and followed without question.

We slid into the car. “Where’s your taxi?” I asked.

“I let him go; I thought we would use Bishop again.”

I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Don’t mention his name again. He’s helped us - I won’t want to get him in any trouble.” I saw her look down at her arm, which I had in a near vice-grip. “Sorry, “I whispered, “listen, Trichardt’s traced me, obviously with the assistance of others on the island. Probably flashed cash around. I cleared out my hotel room - all my things are in the trunk of this car. I had no choice; I had to run. I wouldn’t be surprised if our description has been circulated - the whole damn island is probably looking out for us.”

Maria jerked her head in the driver’s direction questioningly. I could see the man looking at us in the rear-view mirror.

“I don’t know. He was Bishop’s choice,” I whispered.

We had travelled no more than a mile or so.

“Stop here!” I suddenly shouted.

I bundled Maria out of the car, retrieving my stuff from the trunk. The fare was only a few dollars but I gave the driver a twenty telling him to keep the change. He drove off smiling.

“What on earth have we stopped here for?” Maria asked exasperatedly.

I pointed diagonally across the road at an Avis Care Hire depot. “Let’s go.” I said. I realized that if I hired a car they would soon know about it and have a description of the vehicle but they would have to find the vehicle first. We lugged my luggage across the road. I looked at the vehicles lined up in the lot and decided on a white Ford Transit van: there thousands of these on the island, most white. I used my American Express Card.

We threw everything into the back of the van and drove off.

“Where to now?”

“I haven’t got a clue,” I said. “Just let me think. What you have to do is tell Gavin to delay his return flight. I don’t care how he does it even if he has to alter his flight plan. Maybe inventing some technical difficulty, but he is not to return this way until we say so.”

“But...”

I knew we had little time; I interrupted her. “Don’t argue, just do it! Just tell him when he phones. I don’t yet know what to do, but we’re going to have to go underground for a while.” I screwed my eyes shut for a second. “Christ, I need time to think.”

“Listen, let me do this, I’ve done it many times before. Don’t panic. Yes, I’ll tell Gavin what you’ve just said. Can I make a proposal?”

“Yes,” I replied brusquely.

“We change our appearance; we make ourselves look a lot older, wear different clothes. We put some self-stick signage up on the vehicle, you know, caterers or something, make it look like a husband and wife business and then take the ferry to one of the other islands and hole up in some cheap tourist establishment out in the sticks, a self-catering place that only dispenses accommodation without any frills. We hide there for a while.”

I was dubious, but it certainly was better than anything I could come up with.

“With not much else to do we can sleep, swim, and make love,” she added smiling mischievously.

“Sounds good. This disguise you’re talking about?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll look after it. There’s always something going on here for the tourists. Just take me to one of those fancy dress hire places, there are quite a few here.”

We soon found a small shop tucked away in a side street that hired out evening dresses and tuxedos, wedding gear, fancy dress and theatrical garments. Maria disappeared and fifteen minutes later emerged with a number of boxes in three large carrier bags. We drove around until we found a deserted alley and parked the van.

She unpacked the boxes and handed me a grey wig, spectacles with half lenses, a grey moustache, a plain white crumpled shirt, a pair of shorts and sandals. I understood that she wanted me to change immediately. She also handed me two boxes of self-adhesive single letter decals.

“Keep the name short and make sure the letters are straight!” she said.

When I stepped out of the car and looked at my image in the side rear-view mirror, I had to laugh; my transformation was miraculous. I looked thirty years older, my appearance in the mirror reflected the epitome of a working pensioner forced to work to see him through his remaining years.

I quickly applied the decals. We were now the ‘Spring Caterers’. It looked all quite authentic. Nobody would give us a second glance.

Surely, Trichardt would not think us that smart, I thought.

Maria was similarly transformed with wig and sun hat. A pair of old and slightly oversize jeans hid her figure, as did an overly large floral blouse. On her head, she wore a grey wig of somewhat wispy and straggly hair, which hid her luxurious black mane. A floppy hat completed the picture. She had powdered her face, so it was no longer as olive-toned, and had donned a pair of square rimless shaded glasses.

She looked at me with a slight smile. “Don’t you dare comment. I’m warning you!”

I just chuckled.

“What about your stuff?”

“Forget it. I’ll buy whatever I need on the island. I mean, we’ve got enough money now, haven’t we? I also paid my hotel upfront. I’m sure the worst they could do is store my stuff until I get back. I won’t disappear. ”

Well, I couldn’t argue with that.

We drove straight to the harbour and found that the inter-island ferry for Little Cayman was due to leave in forty-five minutes time. I walked over to the ticket kiosk wondering whether my disguise would stand up to scrutiny. Nobody took any notice of me. I baulked at the price to ferry a car across, it was ridiculously expensive, but what could we do? When I saw the crew start to secure the van to the deck with cables, I realized the reason for the price. In bad weather, they could lose the vehicle overboard.

Fortunately, the sea was calm, only a slight swell running. The trip took four hours and we never left the vehicle other to relieve ourselves. Maria had bought a few snacks and sodas, which we finished in the van, and then still seated in the cab, we just dozed for the rest of the trip, the windows open, the trade wind coming off the sea refreshing as it blew through the van.

Cayman Brac is the second largest of the Cayman Islands and is little more the fourteen miles in length and at its widest, about a mile and a half. A coastal road winds its way around the island’s circumference but never strays far from the sea. Most buildings are nestled next to the road or not far from it. The road hugs the northern coastline, a series of small villages with only a few buildings each joining each other along its length. There is no road on the eastern end of the island, only a narrow gravel track.

We docked at West End, a small harbour near the Gerrard Smith Airport, both of which are situated on the most westerly end of the island. We drove along a quaint coastal road past the Government Offices, this a local landmark, then onto Halfway Ground, which, as its name implies, demarcates the centre of the island. Near a hamlet called The Moorings, we found a white board on a post that read ‘Accommodation only plus bar. Under roof garage parking’ at what we thought a ridiculously low daily rate.

“That’s got to be the place for us,” I said.

Maria appeared dubious. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “God, do you think the place is clean? Probably crawling with cockroaches.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Let’s find out.”

I swung the van down the track towards the sea where we saw a large flat rambling building with a few outer buildings surrounding it. The roofs were all moss-covered tiles; only here and there, the original tiling poked through. It was evident that they had been erected many years ago, but appeared neat, the outer walls recently whitewashed, the doors painted. One of the outer buildings was clearly a garage, with three wooden garage doors to it. I hoped one of these was available.

We entered through a narrow door, which took us into a pub, which also housed the reception area, identified by a small counter to one side on which two racks stood containing tiered upright pamphlets and brochures advertising various aspects of the Caymans.

An overweight mulatto woman with an enormous bosom stood behind the long oak bar. The bar’s décor was intended to create an atmosphere similar to the sea nearby, with pieces of fishing net draped through the ceiling beams, trawlers lanterns serving as lights, net buoys affixed to the walls and an assortment of other fishing paraphernalia could be seen.

I said we were looking for accommodation. She came out from behind the bar, took me by the arm, and led me to the counter, jabbering away, telling me what a wonderful spot this was and that privacy was guaranteed, they seldom having other guests except locals who visited the bar in the evenings and weekends. Only occasionally did they have guests staying over.

“I have just the room for youse!” She said her accent strong..

The room certainly was a surprise. It was large, similar to those that were only built in the old days, situated on a corner of the building. The two corner walls had two small windows each, and the bright sunlight streamed into the room. Two of the windows looked directly over the sea. An adjoining room had been converted into a bathroom, this larger than usual, it at least twenty by twenty feet, it too with two windows. All the windows slid up to open, their sills quite low. Large squares of colourfully stained palm-frond matting covered the concrete floors and colourful curtains adorned the windows.

Maria smiled at me and I saw that she liked it.

“I need a garage,” I said.

The woman clapped her hands together and giggled. “You can choose any one of three!”

It dawned on me that there were no other guests. I had taken a brochure from the rack on the counter, which listed all places of accommodation on the island. It did not list this hotel; I found that rather strange and wondered how it survived financially without a steady stream of guests.

We paid for the room, giving her enough to cover three days, but said that it was likely that we may stay longer. The little luggage we had was brought to the room. I then went to park the van in the garage making sure the doors were closed behind the vehicle to ensure that it was hidden from prying eyes.

The woman made no request for any form of identification but merely asked us our names; I said Mr. and Mrs. Donkin.

Before we arrived at the inn, we both had removed our disguises but retained our shabby clothing. I asked where the nearest shops were. The woman pointed to the east towards a village called Tibbets Turn, probably a mile or so away.

“The shops open at nine,” she smiled.

There was a small kitchen behind the bar, which prepared and served a variety of snacks, mostly seafood and salads and of course, the usual hamburgers, and British fish and chips. It could also rustle up a cup of coffee or tea. This was intended for the bar’s clientele and only prepared on order, but it certainly was sufficient for our needs. If you decided to eat on the premises then this would be in the bar.

Standing on the seaward porch, we could discern a faint pathway that led from the hotel down to a small beach between the outcrops of coral that jutted out into the sea. The whole island was a huge coral head built on a submerged undersea peak.

That evening we ate in the bar, fish and chips served in the traditional way, wrapped in newspaper and accompanied by a couple of bottles of local beer. Certainly different from normal hotel standards and really quite tasty.

We retired early; the day had been long and hard, as well as fraught with tension and worry. The bed was large and lumpy. Maria was initially dubious about the linen but this was clean, although well worn.

Well, so much for resolutions. If I had proposed to keep Maria at arm’s length, I had failed miserably. In fact, I had not once given Francine a thought. I felt bad but obviously not bad enough.

We both had automatics and I knew that if anybody came for us, we probably would be forced to protect ourselves. They weren’t looking for us merely to have a chat. I still wondered what would happen if, in the heat of the moment, we were to kill somebody.

Of course, I also wondered whether the police would ever apprehend the perpetrators if we were killed.

Twenty-Three

Superintendent John Whittle of the Caymanian Police strode through his secretary’s office acknowledging the ‘Good morning, Sir’ from the constable who served as his secretary. She immediately rose from her desk and busied herself preparing his usual early morning cup of tea. She placed the cup on the right hand side of his desk and then continued the usual morning ritual of placing a number of files in front of him; tiered one behind the other in what she thought was an order of importance, the most important first.

The Superintendent had been assigned to the Caymans by Scotland Yard, London. He had to do a four year stint, this being usual term. He headed up the plainclothes division of the police, which was housed in the Police Headquarters Building in Elgin Street, George Town. The street housed most government division and departments.

He had a fair number of Caymanian detectives reporting to him with a few other experienced detectives from England. They, like him, were on loan to the Caymanian government. In England, he had been attached to Scotland Yard for eight years and lived in a cottage just south of London near Biggin Hill. Of course, here in George Town he and his wife lived in a house provided by the government. His children had long since left home, so there was now only the two of them.

He was fifty-one years of age but kept fit, jogging every morning, careful about his eating habits and strictly monitoring his beer intake. He had lost most of his hair and what was left was now grey, only thick on the back and sides of his head. His face was narrow with a slight hawkish nose, high cheekbones, and rather thin lips. Old habits die hard and he wore a suit, albeit a summer suit but still sombre: he always appeared out of place in the tropics.

“Well, Marilyn,” he said to his secretary, a local coloured woman, well educated, who spoke English with little of the local twang. She was slim with a pretty face, smart in her police uniform. “What’s happening out there that I should know about?”

Of course, most local incidents during the last twenty-four hours were contained in the files before him but these did not contain rumours, and rumours were an important source of information. You needed to listen to the grapevine.

“Sir, the only thing I’ve heard this morning was a remark by Detective Constable James saying that he heard from one of his stoolies that Carruthers was searching for a Caucasian couple on the islands and that the word was out to find them. Apparently, there’s a substantial reward out for whoever can point them out,” she said.

Whittle pricked his ears up. Carruthers was so important to the police and the subject of so much investigation and discussion that the Black man could have passed as close family - truly, a thorn in Whittle’s side, as he and his men had never been able to pin the man down on any charge. Certainly, they had apprehended thugs and runners of the Carruthers’ syndicate, but the kingpin and his immediate right-hand men had always eluded him.

Whittle’s one wish during his stay on the island was to arrest and convict Carruthers and with only another year to go, he wondered whether he was ever going to be able to do so.

“Marilyn, get James in here.”

Detective Constable James moved into the office with the usual West Indian swagger, a sort of disjointed motion of legs and arms and a slight sway of the upper body from side to side: a cocky gait. He was as black as spades with large eyes, white teeth and a flat nose and exuded a constant air of jovialness. Still, he straightened up in an attempt at deference.

“You wanted to see me, Sir?”

“Sit down, James. What’s this that I hear about Carruthers?”

“I heard from one of my finks, Sir. Carruthers is desperately looking for a white couple who landed on the island a few days ago. They’re said to be in their early thirties. Apparently, she’ll knock your socks off. Mon, a real stunner - dark hair, swarthy complexion, a Hispanic but with an American accent. He’s South African, speaks English with a South African accent. Tall, has the body of an athlete, dark brown hair, cut short and parted on the left, thin face,” James recited.

“Why are they looking for them?” Whittle asked.

James shook his head. “Nobody knows - all that is being said is that finding them will pay handsomely.”

“Thanks, just keep listening and I want to hear as soon as you hear something new.”

James strode out of the office. Whittle drummed a pencil on his desk and took a sip of his tea, deep in thought. Damn Carruthers, he thought, what was the man up to again? This did not sound like any of his usual activities; these were usually confined to drugs and prostitution, and invariably those involved in his deals were the local coloured or black islanders.

Where did these white tourists come in? He assumed they were tourists. Of course, they could’ve come here to deal with the banks, but that wasn’t much help - the banks never volunteered anything, they were as bad as the Swiss. But whenever Carruthers looked for somebody, it could reasonably be assumed that whoever it was could get hurt. If word was out on the street and the price for information as high as this, it would bear investigation.

Call it premonition; something extraordinary was on the go that didn’t bode well for this couple. The problem was that he had no idea who they were, there so many tourists streaming in and out of the island every day. It would be impossible to find them without some tangible lead.

Whittle proceeded to scrutinize the files his secretary had placed on his desk. Most of these related to incidents that had taken place during the last twenty-four hours - not petty crimes and drunken brawls but matters of a more serious nature requiring the intervention of the plainclothes division.

One item caught his eye. It was a typical gang related offence, the systematic beating up of a tax-driver, so severe that the man was now in intensive care unable to speak to the police. He thought it could only be another drug or prostitution related matter. Nonetheless, he put the file aside. He saw that it had Detective James’ name on it.

He finished with the files and called Marilyn to fetch these.

“Get James back in here,” he said, handing her the files. “I’ve got the one on the taxi-driver. I’ll discuss it with James.”

James came in and sat down and Whittle waved the taxi-driver file at him.

“When does the doctor think you can speak to this driver?”

“Sir, the man’s truly badly beaten up. Suspected concussion, broken jaw, cracked ribs and more. It’s a bad one.”

“Okay, what does your gut-feeling tell you? Off the record now - just think aloud.”

“I really don’t know. This individual is clean, no record, good family man; why he was beaten up is a mystery. But I’m sure it’s Carruthers related: only his mob does this. But it could be anything - refusing to pay protection money, a whore, who knows.”

“James please, not a whore, a prostitute.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you think it can have anything to do with the couple Carruthers is looking for?”

“Sir, your guess is as good as mine.”

“Go back to the hospital. Tell the doc we’ve got to speak to the driver, got it? By the way, I want you to look for this couple as well, and let the word get out; I want Carruthers to hear it. I want him to know we’re looking for the same couple. I think we may just put the cat amongst the pigeons. By the way, tell Davids that I’ve decided he is to understudy you on this, just temporarily. He’s not working on anything urgent, okay?”

“Yessir!”

The following afternoon when James arrived back at the offices, he asked Marilyn if he could see the Superintendent urgently. She showed him through.

Whittle looked up, then lent back in his chair, his hands behind his head. He had shed his suit jacket, as the afternoon was still hot.

“Well, what have we got? I had hoped to hear something earlier,” he said gesturing to the chair.

James sat down. “God knows what the doctor gave him but he woke up and was coherent for only a few minutes. The man’s clean, but he’s been chauffeuring the same couple around the island for the last few days and they are the people Carruthers’s looking for. He doesn’t know where they are now. He last saw them two days ago when he dropped them off in town. I believe him. He wouldn’t confirm it but I’m sure that’s why they beat him. He must have withheld the information from Carruthers and his stooges. Of course, as usual his assailants are unknown to him, couldn’t even give us a description.”

“Shit!” Whittle turned to stare out of the window. “Anything else?”

“Yes sir, the word’s out that we’re looking for the couple. Also, Davids came up with something. There’s a South African executive jet standing on the apron at Owen Roberts, it’s been there for a few days. It belongs to some South African conglomerate. A Hendrik Trichardt is the chief executive. Yesterday Davids asked Interpol if they had anything. He got this from Interpol; the telex arrived a few minutes ago.” James slid a telex message over the desk. “Apparently this Trichardt has close connections to the UNITA movement in Angola, that’s what it says here. He’s said to be a gunrunner, supported by the South African government. I’m still trying to find out what it’s all about.”

“Don’t worry, I know,” Whittle said bitterly. “The South African apartheid government and the American CIA are supplying the UNITA movement in Angola with everything they need, including weapons. A bloody civil war is raging there. That’s why the reference to a gunrunner. The question is, what are they doing here? Do you know who the passengers were who arrived on that plane?”

“No sir, we’re still waiting to hear from Immigration.”

“Okay, keep me informed.”

Whittle continued to stare out of the windows, the wheels in his mind churning as he waited for some revelation. Supplying UNITA meant big money. The rebels had to pay cash for everything they got. These were vast sums. Maybe this money was the reason they were in the Caymans - no questions asked, the perfect place to keep these funds. That seemed to make sense to him.

Now, why was the couple here as well? If Carruthers was looking for them then they were definitely not on holiday! Was there a connection between the couple and the passengers off the jet still on the apron?

Chapter Twenty-Three

Gerber and Rockell entered Trichardt’s hotel suite. He sat on a sofa, a Chivas Regal with ice in his hand, watching a program on the television set.

“Well?” he asked, switching off the set. He did not ask them to sit.

“Mijnheer, we can’t find them. They seemed to have disappeared. Yes, we had a few leads but they have both disappeared from their hotels. Van Onselen even cleared out his room; there’s nothing in it. She seems to have left in a hurry; she’s left everything behind. It certainly looks like they were running,” Gerber said.

“Do you mean to tell me you have no idea what’s happened to them?” Trichardt asked with astonishment. How do you disappear into thin air on an island like this?

“Oh,” said Rockell, “we did find out that they rented a white Ford Transit van, but there are hundreds of these on the island, most of them white.”

“Do you think they could’ve left the island?”

“Certainly not by air; we’re sure of that and no boats have departed the Caymans during last two days except for local craft going out and coming back.”

“What about the ferries or an island hopper?”

Rockell did not immediately reply. “I had not thought of them,” he finally said.

Gerber interrupted. “Actually, I did check on those, but why go to another island? Better to stay here amongst the crowd. The other two islands are so damn small!”

“Check them out again,” Trichardt replied curtly.

Van Onselen and that damn Cuban woman must have learnt that he had mobilised local assistance to track them down. The bastard’s smart, he thought and so was the woman. Of course, she was a professional operative, probably trained at Langley by the CIA. He clenched his fists striving to keep his temper under control. If he caught them alive, he would make them reveal the whereabouts of his money! But if they died before that, well, that would be too bad but he’d live with it.

He lifted the phone on the side table and dialled a number, which he read from a scrap of paper he extracted from his jacket pocket.

“Mr Carruthers, please.”

“That’s me,” was the reply.

“Trichardt here. I think our birds have flown. You should have found them by now.”

“I don’t think so. They’d never get off the island without me knowing about it. I’ve people in Immigration. Yes, I’m aware that they were warned that we were looking for them, but they’re still here - we’ll find them.”

“What about the other islands or maybe a boat?”

“No, not a boat but the other two islands are a possibility. Actually, I would’ve thought that a bad choice, not many people -difficult to hide on those. I know people on the islands; I’ll get something going. Just have patience, these things take a while.”

“Okay,” Trichardt sighed. “just get back to me as soon as you hear something.”

Gerber wanted to speak but hesitated for a moment. Trichardt picked this up.

“Well, what’s it... speak up, man.”

“Well, I should tell you that Carruthers’s people beat up some taxi-driver, I mean seriously beat him up. He’s in intensive care at the moment.”

“What’s that got to do with us?”

“It’s just that the local police have taken a keen interest in this, especially the chief of their detective division. It just makes you wonder what the hell is going on. This guy’s ex Scotland Yard - apparently quite a livewire. Apparently, this driver was employed by van Onselen to drive him around during his stay on the island. I’ve got a bad feeling the cops will eventually tie us into this.”

Trichardt shook his head. “Forget it, I can’t see how - that’s Carruthers’s problem. Anyway, we should be out of here in the next few days.”

This seemed to satisfy Gerber.

What he did not know was that it left Trichardt feeling uneasy. He didn’t want to tangle with British cops on foreign soil.

The phone rang. It was Carruthers.

“I just want to tell you, I’ve just heard your two friends are armed. That definitely changes things; the use of firearms on these islands will have the police on all the islands out in force. That’s definitely not good.”

The news took Trichardt by surprise. He could not imagine how the two had managed to get the weapons through customs; this definitely added a new dimension to the problem. How had Carruthers found this out?

“Does this worry you?” he asked.

“Damn right it does,” Carruthers replied.” But if you can live with it, so can I. It’ll just cost more.” With that, he cut the connection.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Bess Sherman was the owner, barman, and receptionist of the Beach Hotel. She had just put the phone down, the only phone on the premises. Her hand had flown to her chest, a look of dismay on her face as she hastily tried to hide her shock.

She was the main drug dealer on Cayman Brac and had been so for a few years now, a low-key representative of Carruthers’ organization. She also managed a prostitution ring on his behalf. It was not that she was directly in his employee but rather could be termed a franchisee, paying a percentage of each transaction to him. She had a few minor dealers spread out on the island, in her employ. The sex trade she controlled herself and while she did not consider herself in the category of a pimp, she alone dealt with her girls. The demand for women of easy virtue here was nothing like on Grand Cayman. Besides, she had found the girls were happier with her running the show. In reality, the hotel was no more than a cover for these activities: she never advertised, but neither did she turn guests away.

The phone call was from Carruthers, and it was alarming that he himself had phoned. She could only recall two or three occasions when he had personally phoned and each occasion had been significant, the consequence of these invariably unhappy.

She would never have been able to hang on to the hotel without the income she derived from acting as an intermediary in the drug trade and on the funds the women brought her. Often the young Americans who visited the island would lose themselves in a week of orgies and drugs, the island and its hotels far enough out of the way and relatively free from police raids. The police were not after the drug user or small middlemen, but after those that used the island as a conduit to the American mainland.

She immediately realized that the couple currently staying in the corner room were the people that Carruthers was looking for: the description he gave her matched them to a tee. It was a shame; she thought them decent people - what could they have done?

She did not know why she had hesitated to tell him that they were here but knew she would have to do so soon.

She gazed out of the entrance and beyond the porch and could see them on the beach; the man and woman both sprawled on their stomachs on chaise-longues, sunbathing. She noticed that the woman had removed her bikini-top. She thought her exceptionally beautiful. She wondered again, why Carruthers so desperately sought them; they certainly did not seem to be the type to have any interest in the specialities that Carruthers and his mob offered.

She turned and looked back at Christopher, her younger brother, who was cleaning the floor of the bar with a bucket and mop, methodically pushing, and pulling the mop back and forth, limping on his gamey leg. She shuddered; that had been the work of Carruthers and his hoodlums, who she likened to Duvalier and his Ton-Ton on Haiti - death and mayhem were part of their game and you didn’t mess with them. Carruthers’s methods were no different - retribution was swift and brutal, as Christopher could attest. Only once had she and her brother not paid Carruthers his proportionate share of a drug deal; her brother’s misfortune was the result.

She was terrified of the man and knew she dare not cross him again.

She walked across the floor to her brother, carefully checking that they were the only occupants of the bar and told him about the telephone call from Carruthers.

“I’se sorry for them, they’se nice people. But I have no choice. Mon, I have to tell him that they are here at the hotel.”

Christopher listened in silence, concealing the rage, which rose within him at the thought of Carruthers. He remembered Jerome, one of Carruthers’s lieutenants, who had arrived on the island with another two of his boss’ goons. First, they had slapped Bess around, even after she had willing parted with the money they were looking for. Then, to make sure she never entertained the idea again, they dragged him to the beach where they beat him senseless, finally throwing him off a coral outcrop, twenty feet to the jagged coral-strewn floor below, resulting in multiple fractures to his lower leg.

Both knew what the consequences would be if they withheld the information. Carruthers would not give them a second chance.

“Tell them,” he said resignedly. He could not let anything happen to his sister.

She walked back to the reception counter and picked up the phone.

Christopher limped to the porch and looked at the couple on the beach.

She still had not dialled the number. “Christopher, don’t you be getting any ideas,” she said, afraid that he might warn them.

He ignored her. He returned to the bar and resumed cleaning the floor, but now vigorously attacked the task, wanting to get finished. He knew he did not have much time.

He seethed with impatience over the next hour and a half, waiting for the couple to lazily make their way back to the hotel. They were touching and laughing, clearly happy together as they slowly ambled up the path. They walked into the bar and slid onto barstools.

Christopher had moved to behind the bar. The man smiled at him.

“Give us a packet of fish and chips to share and two beers - real cold ones, please,” the man said with a friendly smile. Christopher just couldn’t believe that these two were somehow involved with Carruthers.

Bess got busy with the food in the kitchen. Christopher slid two open bottles of local beer over the counter. He checked what Bess was doing and then leant over the bar.

“People from de main island are coming here to de hotel. They’re looking for you. Don’ tell anyone what I tol’ you - not even my sister!” he whispered fiercely.

He saw the fear that immediately registered on their faces.

“Leave now - right away, your hear! Don’ use the ferry or take a plane. You must leave by boat; ask for Johnny MacNamara in the harbour here. He got a cabin cruiser, ‘Island Dream’; tell him I sent you. He’s at Blossom Bay.” He pointed left down the main road. “You can trust him - he’s a friend of mine. Go now!”

They immediately left the bar walking quickly to their room, taking the two beers with them.

After five minutes Bess came through from the kitchen, carrying two plates piled with chips, a piece of fish and salads.

“Where are they?” she asked.

“They went to their room - maybe to change. They took their beers with them. A call came through for him,” Christopher said. He did not want her to become suspicious.

Bess frowned. “I never heard the phone?”

“It hardly rang before I picked it up.”

“What about the food?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, just keep it. They’ll be back as soon as they’ve changed.”

Bess’ eyes lingered for a second or two in him, her face an expression of concern.

Bess covered the food with two other plates, and left them standing on the bar top. She returned to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, he heard a car start. Bess came through from the kitchen to stand on the porch at the corner, as did Christopher. The garage doors were open. the van backing out of it. The couple were both in the van. It drove off, the wheels spinning in the dirt.

“Who ever phoned musta warned them,” Bess said looking hard at her brother.

“It seems so,” he replied, staring at the departing van to avoid turning round to look at her.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I had hardly swung the van onto the road heading towards Blossom Bay when the futility of what we were doing struck me. If they knew that we still were on the island, it would be so easy to keep every exit point under observation; even trying to escape on a cabin cruiser would have little chance of success. But first, get away from the hotel, and Blossom Bay was as good a place as any. Besides which, I doubted whether word had yet spread, as Carruthers’s people still believed we were not aware of their impending arrival.

We soon arrived at Blossom Bay, a quaint village with two small jetties. Access to the wooden jetties was barred by a fence of green plastic-coated wire mesh with one large steel gate allowing access to the boats. There were a couple of fishing boats tied alongside the pier while a number of cabin cruisers and yachts swung at their moorings in the bay. I looked for somewhere to hide the van. There were quaint colonial cottages built on the opposite the road with a slight rise behind stretching parallel to the stands, each cottage with its own lane leading between the properties to the back. I chose a lane at random, drove through and parked behind a cottage under a huge tree that was leaning to one side, a victim of the continuous trade wind.

Maria and I had packed a holdall with the barest of essentials. I grabbed this and locked the van. We quickly crossed the road and made our away to the quay. “Dream Island” was tied to the pier. We stared in surprise; I was not expecting what we were looking at.

“Dream Island” was a forty-foot Hatteras deep-sea cruiser, complete with fighting chair and outriggers, a true game fishing boat with flying bridge and a door in the stern through which sailfish and marlin could be hauled through the transom. A small Stars and Stripes flag fluttered at the stern.

“Ahoy!” I called from the jetty.

A well-built coloured man appeared from the other side of the cabin dressed in cut-off jeans and a white vest. He wore a white baseball cap this with a golden anchor emblazoned above the peak. The cap had seen better days. He looked enquiringly at me.

“Are you Johnny?” I asked.

“I am,” He said, clearly displaying a degree of disinclination towards us.

“Christopher sent me. He said you could help us. I’ve got a problem but I can pay” and then added. “ - well. If you allow us aboard I’ll fill you in,” I said. I did not want us to be standing in the open: the less conspicuous we were the better.

“Is this got anything to do with the police?” he asked.

“No, a crowd on Grand Cayman are after us, but I can explain.”

He stared at us for a few seconds. I could see he was undecided.

“Okay, if Christopher said I’ll help, I’ll do so - you better come aboard.”

We both crossed the short gangplank, Maria holding my hand.

At that moment, another man appeared from behind the seaward side of the cabin. He was a lot older, his hair white and his skin wrinkled from too many years in the sun. I saw he had no teeth, his face seemingly slack-jawed , his mouth fallen within itself. He was similarly dressed to the young man but his clothes were dirtier.

“This is my father, John Snr. You are...?” Johnny asked.

I introduced us. Johnny spoke briefly to his father, with me hardly catching anything through the rapid local patois, but I did hear the name Carruthers.

“You better get below. You don’t want others seeing you.”

John Senior bade Maria and I take a seat on the bench in the main cabin hidden from prying eyes. The windows to the cabin were darkly tinted.

“If the man after you is who I think he is, then you better tell me the whole story so that we can know how best to help you,” the old man said quietly.

“I heard you mention the name Carruthers,” Maria said. “Well, it seems the people after us have hired his services and put a price on our heads.”

“If you’ve got Carruthers after you, then you’ve a serious problem,” John Senior said shaking his head. “It’s pointless trying to run; you’ll never make it to the main island. Anyway, this boat’s not ready - we’re still working on it. Best you hide until things die down. That should be within a few days. This sort of thing has happened before - Carruthers always seems to be chasing somebody.”

At that, he smiled displaying his toothless gums.

“My father’s right,” said Johnny in a strong Jamaican accent, “We’ve got to hide you. I don’t think anybody saw you come aboard. If you think this is our boat - you’re wrong. It belongs to an American who holidays here - he even has his own place on the island - flies in regularly using his own plane.” The young main stared towards the security gate to the jetties. “Nobody will dare board this yacht without proper papers. Our boss is well respected around here - he’s done a lot for the people on the island - they’re not about to forget that. Even the police hold him in high regard.”

John Senior moved to a small galley in the corner and turned a gas ring on to prepare tea or coffee.

“We don’t sleep aboard. I skipper the boat and take friends of the boss out on fishing trips; they charter it from him. You can bunk down in the forward cabin. Nobody will come aboard.” He kept looking over his shoulder as he spoke to me.

I suddenly remembered the van. “My van’s parked behind those cottages. Somebody will find it.”

“Leave it there. Tonight, I’ll go and park it on the other side of the island. You know, create the impression that you abandoned it. That should mislead them for a while,” Johnny smiled.

Neither Maria nor I dared step out of the cabin. At sunset, Johnny and his father left. They said they would be back in the early morning. They warned us not to use any lights. This was an irritating inconvenience, forcing us to rummage around in the dark. At least we could use the gas cooker, in the galley hidden in a corner below the level of the cabin windows so the flame was not visible from outside. We were left with tea and coffee and other essential ingredients plus bread, butter, cheese, bacon and eggs - certainly enough to see us through to the next day.

At six in the evening I noticed a security guard arrive who took up station at the entrance to the fenced in track that led to the jetties. A small shack guarded the sliding gate. I hoped his presence would prevent unannounced intruders. We still had our weapons but were we to use them this could only aggravate matters.

There were a few yachts, which had crews aboard. I thought the crews were probably family and friends. One or two of these crews had barbeques going on a piece of grassed ground alongside the quayside, and we heard music and merriment until about ten that evening.

I slept fitfully, each in our own bunk, never really quite comfortable. Just after seven in morning, our benefactors returned to resume their duties aboard. Johnny told us that that they had left the van abandoned near two other hotels that were miles from where we were. He also mentioned that he had heard that a few men had arrived at the Beach Hotel to interrogate Bess and Christopher who had stuck to their story that they thought that the telephone call I’d received must have been a warning. He said they were now scouring the island and were certain to have stationed men at the ferry harbour at West End and the airport.

I asked him what size aircraft the airport catered for. He wasn’t sure but said that his boss often flew into the airport in his own executive jet. I also asked whether the local airport had jet refuelling facilities. He replied that he did not know but thought that this was only available on Grand Cayman. Still, if the airport could accommodate small jets, then this could enable us to escape.

At about eleven that morning John Senior stuck his head into the cabin.

“Quick, get down into the engine room - we’ve got visitors.” From his expression, I immediately realized he was concerned.

Maria and I dropped through the hatch and climbed down the ladder into the engine room. Standing between the two large Cummins marine diesel engines I saw that up against the ceiling where it met the hull there were two small portholes on each side, no more than four or five inches in diameter, the glass opaque with grime. I drew Maria to the side and pointed to the porthole that was most forward, which I believed would give us a view of the jetty. We took turns peering through the grey glass.

We saw two cars that had pulled up to the entrance to the jetties. Four men alighted and now two of them were speaking to the crew on one the boats, which was moored to the other jetty. All wore slacks with cotton shirts hanging over. I assumed this was to conceal their weapons.

I was decidedly unhappy, especially with no escape route.

“Christ Maria, we’re really are getting wedged in here! We can’t leave the boat - God, we can’t go anywhere!” I said.

“Listen Peter, the old man’s right. Let do as he says. Let the bastards look. They won’t find us, I mean; they’re not going to search the boats.”

I just remembered something.

“Oh my God, where’s the bloody satellite phone?” I snapped.

“Do you really think I’d forget it? I’ve got it and no, there’s been no call from Gavin. I’m thinking that instead of landing on Grand Cayman, why doesn’t he land here?” she said, pushing me aside to peak out of the small porthole again. “They’re coming towards this jetty now,” she added ducking down, pulling me down with her.

Both father and son remained on deck going about their business, not taking any notice of the four men, pretending to only notice them as they came alongside. Maria and I could hear voices through the ventilation shaft that fed fresh air to the engine room, but were unable to make out what was said.

Then I quite distinctly heard the men saying goodbye.

After fifteen minutes, the hatch opened and Johnny stuck his head into the room, grinning from ear to ear, waving at us to come up top.

“They’ve just driven off.”

We all sat down on the benches in the main cabin, the old man retrieving a bottle of rum from a locker, which he waved at us, eyebrows arched in a question.

“God, yes,” I said. “I could do with a stiff one of those.”

He poured us each a drink, and I threw mine back in one shot, the fierce sweet liquor burning its way down my throat; it was just what I needed. Maria sipped hers slowly.

“What did they want?” I asked.

“Their questions were stupid. I soon realized that they don’t know where you are. Yes, they believe you’re on the island, but that’s about all. I suppose they found the van but that’s not going to tell them a thing. They asked whether we had seen anybody resembling you - of course, I said no. I’m supposed to phone them if we see anybody of your description. The bastards even gave me a number!” Johnny said. He looked at Maria. “You shouldn’t be so pretty, everybody notices - they said I should keep a lookout for a very beautiful dark-haired Cuban woman.” He laughed again. “I said that if she’s beautiful I’d never miss seeing you.”

“Fuckin’ bastards,” the old man hissed and then spat over the side. “Far better you stay here. They don’t know many people on the island, so there can’t be that many people looking out for you.”

Maria and I spent another night on the cabin cruiser. The day was tiresome as we were not permitted to leave the cabin. We were both impatient and ill tempered, forced to fret the time away.

That evening Maria and I again discussed what options we had - was landing the jet on the island an option?

We seemed to share the same ideas. We would have to refuel before crossing the Atlantic and while I was sure that the new aircraft would also be fitted with a long-range tank, I had no idea what its range was. I thought it highly likely that we would have to refuel before flying to the island Ile da Sol just off the African west coast.

Anyway, this was now academic; we had to deal with Trichardt before returning to South Africa. If we returned with him still in pursuit, we were dead meat; with all the resources he had at his disposal in South Africa, we had no chance.

I said so to Maria. She agreed.

The next morning Johnny returned with more news. Nobody seemed to know why but the police were now also looking for two European tourists - that could only be us, we thought. The description matched us. We thought that rather strange - we had not broken any laws. Not only that; Johnny told us the police were keeping an eye on the men who had arrived from the main island. Maria thought this could benefit us; Trichardt’s men would be extremely careful if the local police were looking over Carruthers’s shoulders at their every move.

I asked Johnny whether Gerrard Smith, the local airport had any immigration control.

“Yes, it has. Mr Ferguson the American who owns this boat flies in directly from the States, and the one immigration officer on the island handles everything.”

“Do you think we can depart from here or would we have to go back to Grand Cayman?” I asked.

“As long as your papers are okay, I don’t see why not. But let me find out, I’ll let you know by tonight, I know the immigration officer - he lives a short distance from us.”

That evening Maria and I dined on lobster tails smothered with seafood sauce and accompanied by a large fresh salad. Johnny’s father had even brought a bottle of white wine, apparently usurped from Ferguson’s private stash. I hoped the American wouldn’t mind.

Of course, the meal would have been better in candlelight; it wasn’t as much fun in the near dark.

As she did every evening, Maria set up the satellite phone. It started buzzing at about nine that evening, the piercing noise so loud I thought the whole harbour could hear it. She quickly grabbed the receiver, spoke to Gavin for a minute or so, and then handed the phone to me.

“How are things on your side?” I asked.

He told me that he wanted to fly into Grand Cayman the next morning. I said that he should rather make it in the afternoon at about five and that he should land at Gerrard Smith Airport on Cayman Brac.

“What’s your fuel situation going to be like? Will you make Ile da Sol from here? Just remember, there’s no refuelling facility on Cayman Brac.” I had told him that returning to Grand Cayman could be an unhealthy option for us all, briefly mentioning Carruthers’s men in pursuit.

He said he could refuel at Miami in Florida before crossing the Caribbean, which would leave him sufficient jet fuel in the tanks to cross the Atlantic from Cayman Brac.

“Do that,” I said, then briefly filled him in on how the situation was developing. “It’s likely that we’d be wanting to make a rapid departure but whatever happens, wait if we do not pitch up by the designated time. Do not leave without us,” I reiterated.

I said they should not leave the aircraft, the aircraft international status would prohibit any others from approaching the plane on the airport.

“As improbable as it may sound, I’m convinced that Trichardt has now set out to terminate us.”

“I’ve always believed that this was what it was finally going to come to. What a setup! He can’t go to the police and neither can we. Of course, Trichardt’s not going to recognize the aircraft; it still has an American registration number. Your plan might just work, but it’s not going to solve our problem with Trichardt,” Gavin swore.

Of course, I thought with relief. He was right; the new aircraft would only be reregistered once in South Africa when a new certificate of airworthiness was issued. This was excellent news; Trichardt’s men would not consider the aircraft suspicious until we actually drove into the airport’s gates!

“Francine wants to speak to you,” Gavin said and put her on. I didn’t want him to do it but there was no way I could stop him without creating an incident.

I heard Francine’s voice on the phone.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I said. I could see Maria looking at me in the semi-darkness giving me that look. I could not ignore the cruel smile on her face as she watched me squirm.

Of course, I had to reply to Francine’s insistent demands for reassurance; I had to tell her I missed her, and that I could not wait until we got together again and that I loved her.

Maria was three feet away listening, trying to stifle her cynical laughter.

After some small talk, we cut the connection.

“Hi sweetheart, of course I love you,” Maria mimicked sarcastically, and laughed at me. I grinned weakly.

But she had not finished. “Oh, I get such a hard on just thinking about you.” She added more poison, smiling distrustfully, her voice full of scorn, her contempt for me obvious.

“Maria, don’t start with me... please. You know what the situation is.”

“Madre Diaz, don’t start? You know, you’ve got to be the biggest shit around. How can you do this to the woman?”

I detected a quiver in her voice; she was clearly perturbed. Careful, I thought, I’d never seen her like this before.

”You fuck me every night, telling me God knows what, whispering all sorts of wild wonderful words in my ear and Christus! Now you tell her you love her! And me...? Well fuck you, Peter.” She spat venom.

I threw up my hands. “I’ll never understand women. Even in a situation like this you just can’t get away from that bond of sisterhood you all have - you band together and see all men as assholes.”

“You’re right there! You’re an asshole all right!”

“I thought you said my relationship with her didn’t worry you, that you’re just having fun - that you like me - not that you love me. Remember what you said - I’m fun to have around?” I exclaimed in protest although I knew that that was not exactly what she had said, but I had to stop this charade.

“What the hell do you think? That I’m some sexual pervert? A whore who fucks without feeling? Have you no perception of the feelings of others? Have you not over the months and days realized what my true feelings for you are?” Her voice was icy with unconcealed disdain.

I was now getting into serious trouble. “But sweetheart, I do have...”

That’s as far as I got. She slapped me, hard, across my face. For a moment, I thought I’d lost my eye.

“Don’t sweetheart me and don’t you dare touch me tonight. I swear to God I’ll kill you!” She hissed and turned her back on me and disappeared into the lower cabin.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The twin engine Norman Islander rolled to a stop in front of the terminal building at Gerrard Smith Airport. Whittle alighted followed by the detectives James and Davids and finally, Whittle’s secretary Marilyn. A black Rover sedan and a Land Rover waited for them on the tarmac, which then whisked them away.

James and Davids had done a sterling job on Grand Cayman and once they had woven the numerous snippets of information together from their informers, they realized that a full-blown manhunt for the couple was underway, fuelled by the ridiculously high reward on offer from Carruthers.

While this was only hearsay, they also believed that a dead or alive tag had been stuck to the capture of the couple.

Whittle believed this to be no more than a killing waiting to happen, and had decided that he personally needed to head up the investigation. The other deciding factor was the idyllic lifestyle on Cayman Brac - serious crime was virtually unheard of, the place was a police officer’s paradise and hunting down probable killers was not one of the local force’s stronger points.

The problem was further compounded by the fact that until the couple was either kidnapped or killed, there existed no reason to initiate any arrest. No member of the public had laid a charge, no crime appeared to have been committed, and there was no tangible proof that a threat existed - he had to deal with at least one hand tied behind his back, if not both. The only manner in which he could intervene was to ensure that the police’s proximity and knowledge of what was about to occur, would act as a deterrent.

Whittle immediately took control of the small police force, relegating the island’s commanding officer, Sergeant Des Warburton to a subordinate role. The man raised no objection; he was somewhat in awe of the detective.

“Take us to the Beach Hotel,” Whittle directed the black constable at the wheel.

On the way, the sergeant gave Whittle whatever background he had on the Campbells, the brother and sister they were about to visit at the hotel. The sergeant was well aware of their connection to Carruthers, but added that the association was more one of fear rather than of willing participation. Besides he added, these people would always be associated with somebody on the wrong side of the law; it was their business that prescribed it - not to mention that their livelihood depended on it.

Bess and Christopher recognized the police car when it pulled up and came out to meet it. They had a good idea what the visit entailed.

After brief introductions, Whittle asked a number of questions and was surprised to note that they were willingly cooperative; mentioning that after a telephone call in the morning, the couple had immediately left. They also added that a short while thereafter four men from the main island had arrived looking for the couple and wanted to know in what direction they had gone. Bess said that no, they had no idea where the couple went but saw their van heading in the direction of Bottom Bay.

Bottom Bay was Whittle’s next stop.

He involuntarily groaned at the sight of the harbour with its many yachts and cruisers but then realized that if he were to hide, one of these boats would be the ideal place. He sent his men out to question crews, security men and others.

They returned within forty-five minutes but with little information. The group then moved to a coffee shop on the opposite side of the road, which overlooked the harbour.

“Look,” said Whittle, “they’ve got to be here. They’d be fools to attempt escaping Carruthers’s mob by air or ferry - I’m sure they have both places under surveillance. At the moment, the only way to get off the island is by boat. Do you agree?”

Drinking tea, the five debated various ideas but fell silent when a car drew up at the harbour jetties, four men alighting. That they were not locals was apparent by their dress. And they certainly did not appear to be about to go on a boating trip.

“That’s got to be them!” the sergeant said.

“He’s right, sir! I recognize two of them,” James added.

The officers watched the four as they slowly made their way down to the jetties, stopping to speak to those on board the boats.

“I think they’ve got the same idea we have. If they’re hiding, they’ve got to be on one of these boats. Carruthers’s men have a problem - they can’t force their way onto any boat - most are privately owned.”

“How about we using some pretext... let’s say a drug search? We could then go through every boat,” James asked.

“Let me think about that,” Whittle replied running his fingers through the sparse hair on his head. “But Sergeant, I’m going to need you to place a watch on this harbour - not someone in uniform. If I wanted to escape Carruthers’s mob - this is where I’d leave. I want to know immediately a boat departs no matter whenever that may be. Have you got a police patrol boat?”

The Sergeant replied smartly. “No, but we can use the Fisheries Department’s boat.” He pointed to one of the piers. “It’s the grey boat.”

“Can you arrange for it to be made ready for immediate use?” Whittle asked.

“Can do, sir.”

“Please ensure you do this surreptitiously - .“ Whittle added.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The damn woman was now being ridiculous, making me leave the cabin to allow her to change, lying on her bunk with her back turned to me. Of course, it was pointless saying anything. She simply ignored me to such an extent that I was forced to make my own supper and coffee.

Men never use sex as a weapon; women do so all the time.

Last night we had been physically intimate as only true lovers can be, and tonight it was “fuck you - no sweeties for you tonight”. It as if it was a special type of punishment I had to endure.

The fact that some assholes out there were trying to kill us now suddenly meant diddlysquat; she thought it was more important to stick a metaphorical knife into my chest and twist it. Christ I thought, all I needed was Francine to display the same attitude when she arrived. Were Carruthers’s crowd to kill me, it would be a relief!

I decided I best address her sternly on the matter.

“Maria, I know you’re awake - don’t fuckin’ ignore me. We’ve still got to get away from Carruthers and I need your help.”

The cabin was still dark and I could barely make her out on the opposite bunk, wrapped in a sheet, part of the vest she wore just visible. That too was unlike her, she liked to sleep in the buff, everything displayed. God, I thought, I was truly out in the cold here.

She did not reply. I waited.

Her voice muffled by the sheet, she finally spoke.

“Well, what’s it you want to say? It better be confined to how we can get off this island.”

”Stupid bitch,” I thought, but wisely I didn’t say it.

I was about to start the sentence with the word ‘Sweetheart” but changed the wording.

“I’ve got a crazy plan. The airport on this island is close-up against the coast, the one end of the runway actually protruding into the sea on a small peninsula. We get Johnny to take us to the airport by small boat, not this boat, something like a fifteen or eighteen footer. They drop us off on the coast next to the airfield and we approach our aircraft from there.”

“What about immigration?” she asked her voice still muffled.

“We don’t worry about that - we just sneak aboard. Gavin can have the stairway down. In this warm weather that’d be normal. He’s only going to arrive at five, so we can wait until its dark.”

I heard her turn over to face me.

A small victory.

“Who says Carruthers hasn’t got somebody watching the harbour all the time?”

“Well, that would be a problem. And we probably have to assume that’s what he’s doing.”

“And the police?”

I sighed. “In actually don’t know how they fit into things but I’m sure they’re here because of Carruthers and us. The moment we do something that’ll permit them to intervene; they’ll be all over us as will Carruthers’s crowd.”

“Well, discuss it with Johnny to-morrow.” I heard her turn over to face the wall again.

Damn woman!

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Johnny arrived early the next morning without his father.

I discussed my proposed plan with him. He thought it a great idea. He said Fergusson actually owned a ski-boat with two seventy-five horsepower outboards on the transom; it would be just the right vessel to use to sneak up the coast at night. It would be a ten-mile run, requiring us to round the eastern end of the island. He believed there were a few semi-sheltered spots on the coast near the airfield’s main runway that could be approached on foot from the coral beach.

“It’s also not unusual for boats to go out at night; quite a few anglers do that,” he said enthusiastically.

A night’s sleep alone seemed to have benefited Maria greatly. She was not quite as testy as the evening before, managing a few monosyllables in reply when spoken to. She even made me a cup of coffee. I got a slight smile when I told her that Johnny thought her idea good.

The ski-boat was on a trailer parked in a boathouse on Ferguson’s property. They used Ferguson’s Land Rover to fetch the ski-boat, while we remained aboard. They would launch the boat later that afternoon from the harbour’s slipway, which the small-boat community all used.

At eleven that morning, we all jumped as the strident sound of the satellite phone pierced the tranquillity on the boat.

“I’m in Miami, we’ve just refuelled,” said Gavin.

I told him of our change in plans and that he was to ensure that the aircraft’s steps were not retracted on arrival, and should remain so during the night so that we could gain access. As we would only be able to approach at night, he would need to delay his departure until first light the next morning.

Johan Senior and Johnny returned from Fergusson’s beach bungalow at two in the afternoon, towing the boat behind the Land Rover, which they immediately reversed onto the slipway, sliding the boat into the water. Maria and I observed this from the cabin cruiser. Cruising on one engine, they brought the ski-boat across the harbour and alongside the cruiser. Johnny jumped aboard the larger boat, dropped two fenders over the side, and then tied the boat alongside. They had filled the tanks with petrol on the way to the harbour; this would ensure that we had more than sufficient fuel for our planned trip.

During the course of the afternoon, they prepared the boat, ostensibly to go on an evening fishing trip. We noticed that two other boats in the harbour were similarly being prepared. Johnny even had a discussion with one of the other boats as to what was the best bait to use for tonight’s trip. He was convinced that the proposed night-out with the boat would not seem suspicious at all.

The airport was only a couple of miles away. At around five, I saw a Lear jet approaching and knew that this had to be Gavin. There couldn’t be that many executive jets landing at this airport.

In the tropics, the twilight is of short duration and as soon as the sun set, it rapidly darkened. By eight, the first stars twinkled in the sky and shortly thereafter, a three-quarter moon rose above the horizon, its silver light mirrored off the calm sea. It was only along the coastline that there was some surf action. The usual trade winds had abated to a breeze.

At about nine, we all clambered aboard the ski-boat, Maria and I hiding ourselves in the small for’ard cabin, the rear of which was open. A VHF marine radio hung from brackets just under the roof while a compass had place of prominence on the small dashboard behind the helm. We had taken little with us, just a few items of clothing, the satellite phone, and our wallets. The automatics were cumbersome, but considered essential. We had nowhere else to put these other than stick behind belts in our backs, under cover of the loose shirts we wore.

Johnny took the helm and we slowly idled out of the harbour following one of the other boats, which had also just cast off. All our navigational lights were ablaze. Once beyond the breakwater, Johnny swung left keeping a few hundred yards from the shore, opening the throttles just sufficiently to get the boat up onto a slow plane over the water. The speed was slow enough to keep the ride over the swell to a muffled thump, the spray shooting outwards from below the hull, the boat’s bow wave revealed by the fluorescence in the water. Anybody with binoculars would have no problem following our passage.

John Senior said that he thought we should see the runway lights within an hour and a half.

“We’re coming up to the ‘Keith Tibbets’,” Johnny said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s an old wreck. After that we’ll round West End Point, and then I’m going to bring us closer inshore.”

Maria had still not spoken to me but although she still rebuffed me, I now found her occasionally looking at me, no longer as hostile as before.

Or was I only imaging this?

We kept a sharp lookout for any signs of pursuit but other than a fishing boat that trailed behind us, there was nothing to be seen. The fishing boat was a good mile or so distant. Nobody thought that Carruthers would come after us in a slow lumbering fishing boat.

In order to avoid the treacherous shallows and reefs, we rounded West End Point quite a distance out to sea. It was then that Johnny extinguished the navigational lights, in fact all the lights, plunging the boat in darkness. I estimated that we could not be more than a mile off the coast. This was the Atlantic side of the island, the wind stronger, the shoreline taking the brunt of the easterly trade wind, the white combers, which now attacked the coastline, clearly visible.

We approached the shoreline with caution, looking for a cove that would provide some shelter. Johnny decided that he had no choice but to drop us off in the shallows, leaving us to wade ashore. He was afraid that there were insufficient hands to slide the heavy boat back into the water from the beach if he went any further inshore.

“Stop the engines!” John Senior shouted. Immediately Johnny had the engines in idle, they immediately gurgled to a stop. The boat rolled from side to side, the only sound the wind and the slap of waves against the hull.

“Listen!” the old man said.

At first, I heard nothing. Then Maria grabbed my arm and pointed, and I heard the sound of engines. Just from the sound, I knew this had to be a large boat. I scanned the sea towards the east. Then I saw it. It was a large cabin cruiser, making a good fifteen knots, its bow out of the water, it also showing no lights.

It too was moving in the direction of West End Point.

“No lights,” John Senior said. “That’s trouble. I hope they haven’t seen us.”

The twin diesel engines speeded up, the cruiser swinging to starboard and changing course to intercept us. It approached rapidly, its bow wave a fluorescent white bone in its teeth. The picture was ominous: I was sure they proposed to ram us.

“For fuck’s sake! Start the engines,” I shouted.

It must have taken five to ten seconds to get both engines started. The moment the motors fired, Johnny rammed the dual throttles forward, and the ski-boat’s bow shot out of the water as the propellers bit, Maria and I wildly flailing our arms looking for handholds as we fell backwards. As we surged forward, the cruiser changed direction to maintain an interception course, rapidly closing the gap.

The ski-boat was more nimble but could not match the cruiser’s speed, not in the choppy sea.

John Senior shouted. “Wait...! Don’t turn away yet!”

“Old man, don’t interfere, I’ve got this under control. The bastard’s trying to ram us. Get the life jackets out from the spray cabin - hand them out!” Johnny screamed at his father.

Just as the cruiser was upon us, Johnny swung the ski-boat to port passing along the portside of the cruiser in the opposite direction, the combined speed of the boats leaving the two boats abeam of each other for mere seconds.

But as the boats came abeam, shots rang out from the cruiser, and holes suddenly appeared in the fibreglass spray cabin. Then they were gone, and we were heading out to sea with the cruiser laboriously swinging around in pursuit.

Christ! I hauled the Sauer 9mm from behind my back and fired off two shots in the direction of the cruiser. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maria take up a shooter’s stance, both hands gripping her automatic as she fired three quick shots in succession. I had no doubt that these had struck their target; she was a professional, trained at Langley, I remembered.

I looked round to see if everybody was all right. Johnny had been hit, the injury high in the shoulder. It looked to me like a flesh wound, but there seemed to be a lot of blood.

I realized we could not spend the night trying to avoid the cruiser. I was certain that they had more men aboard and had yet to bring their full firepower to bear. Next time it would be a fusillade.

We were living on borrowed time - they had the edge in terms of speed and while we could avoid and outmanoeuvre them, they would always return to be near enough to get off a few shots.

I moved closer to Johnny. “Are you managing?” I asked.

He nodded. “Listen,” I said. “We can’t go on like this. I want you to run as close to the shore as you can, but run parallel to the waves. Maria and I will jump overboard and swim for the shore; - with the lifejackets, we’ll be fine. You’ve got to get yourself to the hospital. Once ashore, I’ll alert the police, not giving my name but I’ll tell them as much as I can, okay?”

Johnny just stared at me. “Don’t do that - just get away. Leave the police out of it. I’ll handle this.” He clutched his shoulder. John Senior had taken over the helm, always letting the cruiser approach and then swinging away at the last moment.

Again, two shots rang out from the cruiser, and we all ducked.

“God, at this rate it won’t be long before someone’s hit again,” Maria said.

“Maria! Do you want to jump with me?” I asked.

She grabbed my hand. “I’ll jump with you. Just hang onto your automatic.”

With his good arm, Johnny grabbed my shoulder. “Look... look!” he exclaimed, pointing out to sea. “There’s another boat and it’s turned towards us.”

He was right. A large fishing boat with a high bow, a mast amidships and a large cabin on the stern approached from the sea. It too showed no lights. I thought it had to be the fishing boat that had trailed us at a distance after leaving the harbour.

“Christ! It’s the Fisheries boat,” John Senior exclaimed. “What the hell is it doing here?”

Suddenly the fishing boat lit up, both the navigational lights as well as two deck spreader lights. They cast a harsh light over the for’ard deck. The men on the deck were clearly visible.

“Christ! It’s the bloody police!” Johnny cried.

The cruiser veered away from the fishing boat, probably seeing the police aboard. It turned east, increasing its speed, the forward part of the hull out of the water, the bow ploughing into the swells as it sped away.

John Senior brought the ski-boat around until it was running parallel to the coast just beyond the surf line, the shore no more than a hundred or a hundred and fifty yards away. I looked at Maria; she nodded. I let myself fall backwards overboard, and she did the same.

The shock of the cold water momentarily took my breath away, but in a second or two, I had recovered. I looked around and found Maria a few yards away. I checked whether I still had the Sauer 9mm. We closed up and struck out towards the shore.

Fifteen minutes later after being pummelled a few times by waves and fighting the backwash, my feet eventually touched the coarse coral bottom. I was exhausted.

But Maria and I had stayed together. I grabbed her hand as we waded ashore, gasping for air, coughing, and spluttering. I stumbled up the beach, my legs like rubber. Maria seemed to have fared better than I had. She was obviously in better shape than I!

We collapsed on the sand above the high water mark and looked out to sea. The cruiser had sped off, no longer to be seen. The ski-boat was now alongside the fishing boat. I hoped the islanders would be able to talk their way out of any predicament. I had said to them that they should stay as close to the truth as they could. That was always a good policy. I couldn’t foresee a problem - they had done nothing illegal. Johnny’s wound was clearly caused by a gunshot but there’d be no indication that fire had been returned. Of course, the question would be asked why they’d been fired at. I left that to Johnny to handle, just glad that we’d got away.

“Are you okay?” Maria asked.

“Yes.”

“Merde, you’re not very fit. I should’ve made you run a few miles every day on the beach.” She rose from the sand, grabbed my hand, and pulled me up. “Come on, let’s go.”

We slowly climbed the incline from the beach moving towards the tropical vegetation’s growth line. I was surprised. We found an un-tarred road, well worn, which followed the coastline, disappearing into the few gnarled and windswept trees to avoid large coral outcrops.

I thought we had to be about a half-mile from the airport’s perimeter fence. We had no landmarks and the only way was to move north. Maria appeared to know the way. It had to be her training again. What else did they teach these people, I asked myself?

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Whittle grabbed the microphone from its bracket on the Land Rover’s dashboard and brought it to his mouth depressing the transmit button.

“Cayman Three, Cayman Three. Come in,” he called.

Cayman Three responded.

“What’s happening? You last said you were approaching both boats. I need to know,” Whittle said loudly.

“The big cruiser broke off its engagement as soon as they saw that there were police aboard our boat. It turned tail and seemed to be heading back to Rebecca Cove; that is normally its home base. We now have the ski-boat alongside. There are two known islanders aboard - the McNamara’s from Bamboo Bay. The family looks after the Fergusson’s bungalow and their boats in his absence. They say they were out on a fishing trip. We found a few 9mm shell casings rolling around on the boat’s floorboard. Somebody aboard must have fired shots, but we could find no weapons. The MacNamaras say these are old casings from when they had let off some shots at sharks that were attacking the fish they were trying haul aboard.”

Whittle knew it was a lie. “Bullshit....,standby.”

Empty shell casings? Then it was shooting he had heard. Who had been shooting at whom? Where were the weapons? Had they thrown the guns overboard? He remembered that during the last radio communication with the fishing boat, the police officer on board had said he thought he could see four persons. Now there were only two. What happened to the others?

“Cayman Three, can you see anybody on the beach?”

“No, it’s too dark,” came the reply through the loudspeaker.

Whittle turned to the driver who was studying the wing mirror on his right. “Come on. Let’s move further up the coast to where the road gets closer to the sea. I want to look at something.

The driver turned from the mirror. “Superintendent, sir, there’s another vehicle coming up behind us. He’s still quite away from us, but I can see his lights dipping up and down.”

“Turn of your lights,” Whittle snapped.

Suddenly they were shrouded in darkness. For a moment, neither could see a thing as they waited for their eyes to adjust.

“Pull off the road into the trees,” he said to the driver.

Gingerly the driver inched the van off the road. He then selected four-wheel drive and drove over a few plants and bushes as the vehicle penetrated the dense vegetation of a bamboo grove. When they thought they could no longer be seen, they stopped. A minute or so later a sedan drove past on the road behind them. It didn’t even slow down, the occupants obviously not seeing the hidden Land Rover.

“Who the hell is that?”

“That looked like the car those guys we saw at the harbour were driving - Carruthers’s men,” the driver respectfully volunteered.

Whittle remembered. “You sure, Carruthers’s crowd?”

The driver affirmed this.

What the hell was going on, he asked himself. Carruthers’s men seemed relentless in their pursuit of this couple. What was the reason? No thefts and no murders had been reported, in fact, the island was unusually quiet. It was obvious that somehow the couple featured high in the order of things: this was probably due to the extent of the reward, which the police had confirmed was on offer for their capture - either dead or alive.

He was sure that the couple were on the ski-boat and must have jumped ship. Had they swam ashore? That would have been a relatively easy feat. Why was the car here? The occupants must have been looking for them ashore somewhere here.

Here, twenty to thirty feet above the sea, the wind, which had freshened, was unimpeded, its strength buffeting the van.

“Okay, let’s proceed along the road. Please, no lights and keep a sharp lookout for the other car.”

Both men had drawn weapons from the armoury at the police station, and were each armed with a .38 Star revolver. Whittle carried his in a shoulder holster, wearing a windbreaker over it.

The Land Rover moved rapidly forward and they soon picked up the rear lights of the car in front.

“Keep a fair distance behind them. I don’t want them to hear us.” The driver slowed down.

Out at sea, the fishing boat still lay with its lights ablaze and the ski-boat alongside. He got on the radio and instructed the fishing boat to escort the ski-boat back to the harbour.

“The ski-boat crew are not to leave the harbour until I’ve had spoken to them, which will only be during the course of tomorrow,” he said irritably, “What are they saying about the cartridge casings they had rolling around in the boat? Are they still sticking to that bloody stupid story?”

“They say they say that these are from trying to kill sharks. It’s a lie - the casings aren’t even corroded.”

“And the guns?”

“They’re Fergussons’.., or so they say.”

“Liars.”

Chapter Thirty

The wind from the east, which had freshened earlier, rustled the long leaves of the bamboo stalks in the interspersed grooves that bordered the shoreline. The car approached from the east, the wind carrying its sound, so we heard it before it came into view. We saw the approaching halo of its headlights from afar as it moved on the track that bordered the coast.

Suddenly its lights were extinguished, but the car still approached. Who was this? I asked myself. Lovers looking for a quiet place to park? Why switch off the lights and still keep driving?

I grabbed Maria hand and pulled her towards the scrub and bamboo thickets.

“Come on; into the bamboo.”

We sprinted across the road, threw ourselves into the scrub, and then crawled deeper into the vegetation and bamboo stalks. This was not as dense as it had seemed; there were bare patches between the thickets, with the vegetation consisting of sparse long-bladed grass.

“Lie still!” I whispered fiercely.

The car had stopped, the engine switched off. I could hear the crunch of shoes on the corral shale. The shale was a godsend; all over the island, this coral shale was the ground underfoot, making it virtually impossible to sneak up without some telltale sound.

Peering low through the bamboo thicket where the stalks were devoid of leaves, we saw three men slowly walking down the track towards our position, their attention focussed on the vegetation to their right. The moonlight glinted on the guns all three had drawn.

They stopped about ten yards from us. The fishing boat was still out at sea, straight across the beach. I recognized Rockell: he was obviously in charge of this small group of black men, clearly members of Carruthers’s crowd.

“They’ve got to be around here. Look, this is where they came ashore,” I heard Rockell say. He had moved towards the beach and descended a few yards down the loose shale slope. “See, here are their footprints in the sand.” He bent over, staring at the ground.

“Spread out, we’ll enter this bush in a line. If you see anything, don’t hesitate, just shoot,” he said.

Maria squeezed my hand, then pulled my face towards her and hissed into my ear.

“They can’t miss us - they’re going to walk right into us. We must shoot before they do; it’s our only chance. When I stand, it’s my signal to shoot. Don’t wait for me, get up, find a target, and shoot. Just make sure you’ve got a target.”

My blood froze. When I was given the automatic, I had not actually considered using it. Now she was saying that we needed to kill them before they killed us! That we had no alternative but to kill first.

God! This was serious close combat stuff she was suggesting - you do not miss when you this close but then neither do the enemy.

I pulled the Sauer from my pants and slowly and quietly released the safety catch, the gun already cocked and a cartridge in the chamber.

Someone approached my position stealthily; I heard the sound as he brushed foliage aside as he moved forward the coral ground crunching. It was impossible to move in these thickets without making some sound. It was not entirely dark; the moon was providing some light, making our surroundings discernible. Suddenly, the bush in front of us parted. My eyes never left the movement but in my peripheral vision, I saw Maria rise. I was still trying to follow her cue and rise from my prone position, when the first shots were fired. As I came up, I glimpsed somebody to my right swinging his weapon towards me. In an instant, I had the automatic aligned and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in my hand, the ejected cartridge shell glinting in the moonlight as it spun past my head. Simultaneously, I saw a spurt of flame from the other’s gun. A numbing shock hit me in the right hip. I swivelled around completely from the impact. I heard other shots fired, some from right next to me and I realized Maria was still shooting.

I heard a loud oomph from alongside me and saw Maria double-up and collapse to the ground. The first shot I had fired had hit the man in the chest; he was knocked backwards, not rising. I also had seen Maria’s first shot bring down a man. Both had been black, which meant that Rockell still had to be around somewhere. I knew I had been hit but the pain had yet to register. My mind was still driven by the adrenalin in my system, the shock still to come.

I couldn’t see Rockell. I sunk to my knees and looked down at Maria who was lying on her stomach, her one arm thrown out at an angle, the other under her body. Carefully, I rolled her over; she was limp. The bullet had penetrated her stomach on her upper right side. The entry hole left me in no doubt that she must have sustained internal injuries; there were vital organs in that part of the abdominal cavity. She was losing blood internally, as there was very little blood seeping from the wound.

“Maria! Are you okay?” I heard myself shout. A stupid question considering the wound she had incurred, but I was in a state of panic.

She groaned. I realized the shot must have knocked the wind out of her. She groaned again.

“I’m hit,” she whispered hoarsely.

“I know. Just lie still. You’re going to be okay. Don’t move until I get back.” I left her before she could reply, crawling away from her but staying in the bamboo thicket, trying to make as little noise as possible, hoping that the bamboo leaves that rustled in the wind would cloak any sounds I made. After a few minutes, I stopped and lay still, looking, and listening for anything that seemed unusual. Rockell was still around; I dare not stand and present him with a target. He had to be nearby.

I heard another car draw up on the road and then the slamming of doors followed by the noise of people moving through the scrub and bamboo, not attempting to disguise their approach.

A shout suddenly rang out. “Police - don’t move!”

My first thought was Maria. The police would do their utmost to get Maria to where she could receive medical attention.

“Over here,” I yelled. I heard the snapping of twigs and the rustle of leaves as they rushed towards me. Two men suddenly emerged, the one dressed in a Caymanian police uniform.

I stood up and raised my arms. “Over here,” I shouted again.

They approached, cautiously, their revolvers drawn as if expecting something to happen.

“They’re gone,” I said. “But my girlfriend has been shot.”

The white man in civilian clothes came to stand right in front of me looking down at Maria.

“I’m Superintendant Whittle. Who are you and who is this woman? How bad is she?”

”Let’s worry about her first. She is Maria Garcia - please... get her to a hospital,” I pleaded. “She’s badly hurt. She’s been shot in the stomach.”

Between the three of us, we carried her to their Land Rover. I wasn’t much help. Shock had set in; I was feeling light-headed.

“You’re also hurt,” he said.

I nodded. We opened the rear of the van and lay Maria down on the floor. She groaned. I climbed in next to her and sat with my knees hunched up, my back resting against the side of the van. I don’t remember much of the trip back into town, all I know is that the driver drove fast and we were there within minutes. Medical staff rushed out of the cottage hospital pushing two gurneys, and then immediately transferred both Maria and I to these and then rapidly pushed us up a ramp into the casualty section. A doctor was already on hand to attend to Maria.

A nurse gave me two injections, never telling me their purpose. She didn’t even speak to me, but the blood on my shirt and trousers must have indicated clearly enough that I was wounded.

Whatever the shots were she gave me, I was soon asleep.

Chapter Thirty-One

I opened my eyes to find myself in bed, the only occupant of a small ward. It was daytime, the sun shining in through the single large window. After a short while, a black nurse bent over me to check whether I was awake. I stared up into her face. She was a large woman and when she smiled down at me, her mouth was all teeth. In a broad Jamaican drawl she introduced herself.

“I’m Cynthia Blackwell. Doctor Broadhurst has given me strict instructions to look after you and not to leave you alone.”

“What time and what day is it?” I asked my voice no more than a croak; I felt like I had been out for days.

“You were admitted last night and it is now ten in the morning. You were lucky - I’m told the bullet did little damage. They only had to give you a few internal stitches but you going to have a scar on your side. You can always show it to your girlfriends - nobody is shot these days. A hero back from a war,” she said laughing at her own attempt at humour.

Taking a shot just to be labelled as brave wasn’t what I had in mind.

“Nurse, Miss Garcia, the lady who was admitted with me last night... is she all right?” I asked anxiously, acutely aware of my barely contained panic hovering just below the surface.

Her demeanour changed to that of some concern.

“Please calm down, the doctor says she will be all right but will need a while to recuperate. She was in theatre for two and a half hours - she’s recovering in intensive care at the moment.”

“Thank you,” I said with a sigh of unconcealed relief. Maria was going to be okay - that was all I wanted to hear. I soon fell asleep again.

I woke up to see the last of the day disappearing, the setting sun’s light streaked across the sky. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and realized that, hidden in the shadows of the room, somebody sat on a chair watching me. I identified him as the police officer from the night before. I couldn’t remember his name, but then I could not remember much else that had happened after I was shot.

“I see you’ve woken up,” a deep male voice said. “I’m Superintendent Whittle. Do you remember me from last night?”

I nodded my head. I had been expecting him and knew he had to have a barrage of questions to ask. Gunshots and the killing of people was a serious event. He certainly had not wasted his time!

“Do you mind if we start at the beginning?”

“Not at all,” I whispered already thinking that I would relate everything as close to the truth as I considered prudent. Try not to lie was the best way to go so as not be caught on the wrong foot at some later stage. Certain things I would have to omit.

“You’re Peter van Onselen, a South African citizen. That’s correct?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a commercial pilot and disembarked from a South African registered aircraft a few days ago. The aircraft then departed for the US. The aircraft was on a private flight - which we know. I’ve two questions. Why did you alone stay behind and what are you doing here?” Whittle asked, removing a notebook from his jacket.

“My friends are due to return this way in a few days,” I replied. I didn’t want to tell him that they were already here. I seriously doubted that he would know that they had already returned. Nobody had passed through immigration. He had no names and the aircraft now on the apron at the airport was US registered. He would not tie the two together.

“I thought I’d stay here - it’s an ideal place for a few days leave.”

He harrumphed. Did that signify any disagreement, I asked myself?

“And Miss Mary Donkin. Whom by the way, you called Maria Garcia last night.., is she your associate or is there more to your relationship? What part does she play in your more recent events?”

From his sarcasm, I realized that this was not going to be easy. The gun battle in the bamboo thicket was enough to concern any police officer and he was no exception - this was going to be difficult. No doubt, as soon as he could, he would verify my version of the events with Maria. Also, I had no papers; these had been left aboard with Johnny when we dropped over the side of the boat. I had no idea what Johnny had done with these. Had he even admitted that we were aboard the ski-boat?

“Miss Donkin is merely an acquaintance I met on the island,” I said.

I heard his sigh of exasperation.

“Come, come, Mr van Onselen, you insult my intelligence. I think you need to know that I consider both you and Miss Donkin as the good guys and those after you as the bad guys, but frankly, if you continue on this tack and don’t cooperate, I’ll have no alternative but to consider you the bad guys, with every intention of jailing you. Illegal possession of firearms, culpable homicide, if not murder - and a few other charges I could drum up. Well, what will it be?”

Well, here goes, I thought. Let me get this off my chest.

“Superintendent, I’m a South African businessman and my partner and I were en route to the US to collect a new addition to our executive aircraft fleet - we are an aircraft charter company. Miss Donkin is an acquaintance and we met on the island. As far as the relationship with her is concerned, it’s personal and I would prefer it kept private. I presume you know what I mean. As to why we are being pursued, I don’t know.”

Whittle just looked at me. He rose from his seat and turned the light on. I saw that he was not amused, his face rigidly set, his grey eyes staring fixedly at me.

“Currently, we have another visitor on our islands from South Africa. A Mr Hendrik Trichardt and a few others and from information I have, I gather from Interpol that he is a rather powerful South African industrialist with some rather dubious connections - they mention that he is a known supporter of terrorist movements in Africa for one. He has brought others with him, some of whom are of also of dubious character. Since arriving here, they haven’t been near a beach and seem to have done nothing else but pursue you and Miss Donkin and, in fact, at considerable expense, appear to have acquired the assistance of Mr Carruthers in the process.”

I was about to speak but he held up his hand.

“Wait; let me tell you about our infamous Mr Carruthers. He is not the type of person you wish to be associated with. He will do anything for a price, even murder if necessary and word has it that this is precisely what he proposes to do to you and Miss Donkin. So... we can only assume that the price was right. The question is why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mr van Onselen, don’t fuck with me. There are a couple of dead people out there who, need I need remind you, were shot by you and Miss Donkin. Not forgetting to mention that the two of you were also shot!”

There was no mistaking the venom in his voice.

“Now, it certainly cannot get any worse than that, and you have the balls to tell me you don’t know?”

“You know as well as I do, that they were shot in self-defence,” I said with growing frustration.

“Really! What I believe will depend on what you tell me. At the moment it looks like murder,” he replied menacingly.

I realized I would have to tell him more. I needed to stick as close to the truth as possible, there was less likelihood Maria and I could eventually contradict each other. What I was trying to do was read Maria’s mind and guess how she would respond to the question. Superintendent Whittle was bound to make a bee-line for her the moment he finished with me.

“Okay, Superintendent, let me tell you what I know. Mr Trichardt believes I know the whereabouts of something that he’s looking for. This has nothing to do with your islands and is confined to South Africa in its entirety. The items in question are in no way related to a criminal matter, neither in the manner they were acquired nor how these have been disposed of. Neither party, that is Mr Trichardt or we, have deemed it necessary to formally lay a criminal charge. You can verify these facts if you wish. He has for the past few months, been trying to extract information from Miss Donkin and me, information, I might add, that we don’t have. We have committed no crime - as I said, you can check with the South African authorities. And neither have we committed a crime on your islands. The shootings were in self-defence. Yes, that we possessed illegal weapons is true enough, but that was not by way of choice and I admit it would be your prerogative to charge us. However, Mr Trichardt’s personal vendetta against us necessitated that we arm ourselves.”

“Why didn’t he deal with this in South Africa? Surely he could have brought more pressure to bear on his home turf?” Whittle asked, duly writing in his little book.

“He did, but ended up being unsure whether we were in fact involved. There was no tangible evidence. But when we flew into the Caymans, he incorrectly assumed that our trip was directly related to the items he sought and that we had these, which, of course, is wrong. But he does not believe this. And that, sir, is the whole story,” I said with what I hoped was a show of finality.

If he ran off to Maria to verify my story, I knew she would never admit to the cash and diamonds and hopefully say the same as I had. Would she admit to a relationship? Probably, I thought, we have to give them reason as to why we were together and the only reason I could come up with was a romantic affair. God, I thought, that did sound corny!

“The doctor is not about to discharge you. I’ve put you both under guard; a constable is stationed outside your wards. You’re not under arrest; the guards are here to protect you in case you should get any undesirable visitors. I hate to say it but I believe the others haven’t finished with you yet. Also, as I said, arresting you is definitely still an option. I’ll speak to your lady-friend the moment I can and I hope she collaborates your story.”

He rose from his chair and came over to the bed, looking down at me.

“Think about telling me the reasons - maybe then I’ll understand this desire the man has to kill you both. Perhaps it will cast a new perspective on things. Who knows, I may be motivated enough to release you - even protect you.”

I remained silent.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Trichardt and Gerber arrived on Cayman Brac on a scheduled inter-island flight.

Trichardt was disturbed; the news from the island was not good. In fact, it was so bad that Carruthers himself had deemed it necessary to fly in but on a different flight, but only after Trichardt had applied considerable pressure and upped the ante.

The feedback they had received from their people was appalling. The cruiser had returned to Cotton Tree Bay its home base where the natural harbour created by the outer coral reefs protected it from the open sea while it rode at anchor. It had not achieved its objective; both van Onselen and the woman had escaped. The sudden arrival of the police on the Fisheries Research vessel had dealt their plans a final blow, forcing them to abandon their pursuit and affect a hasty retreat.

Things had continued to go wrong; two of Carruthers’s men were thought to be either wounded or dead in the gun-battle involving Rockell.

What surprised them all was that the police seemed to out-guess them at every move. They had arrived along the coastal road within minutes of the exchange of fire, forcing Rockell to flee on foot, leaving his dead or wounded comrades and making his way back to their base on the southeastern side of the island.

The only consolation was that the woman had been wounded, if not van Onselen as well.

Trichardt found it particularly disturbing that the local police appeared to pre-empt any action Carruthers took. He considered it prudent to keep a good distance from the action so to ensure that he could not be directly implicated. He was convinced Carruthers had a police informer in his midst. How else could the police be so well informed?

Still, the police could believe what they liked, but without conclusive evidence there was little they could do.

They exited the small airport building and took one of the two only taxis parked outside the terminus, directing the driver to the beach bungalow, which served Rockell as a home base. He had rented this on a weekly basis, furnished and supplied with linen. The taxi followed the eastern coast road. Trichardt noticed that here the houses were secluded, each built on a rather large tract of land ensuring a fair degree of privacy. There was little commerce on the eastern shore, as it was all concentrated on the western coastline.

The taxi crunched to a stop on the coral strewn driveway. Rockell came out to greet them dressed in Bermuda shorts and a vest and shod in a pair of slip-on sandals.

Trichardt stepped out of the car and without even a perfunctory greeting, swore at his assistant in Afrikaans.

“Dit was nou ‘n regte fokop!”[1] He said not concealing his contempt. “Dammit man! Do you people have to fuck up every instruction you’re given? And now you’ve even got the police involved.”

Trichardt climbed the sun-bleached wooden stairs to the veranda and swept past Rockell without a further glance, Gerber right behind him.

As Gerber passed Rockell, he could not help himself.

“You’re a useless prick,” he hissed.

Trichardt found a bedroom that was unoccupied, threw his satchel onto the bed, and then retired to the bathroom.

Gerber and Rockell stood in the sparsely furnished living room. The furniture was good but showing distinct signs of use: it appeared to have been furnished with those pieces the owners no longer considered satisfactory for their own main house but had not discarded. Clearly, these considered acceptable for a holiday beach dwelling.

“What the fuck’s going on?” Rockell asked with a frown..

Gerber sat down on in an armchair covered in cloth with a floral design.

“The man’s taking personal control. Carruthers is also arriving with additional men,” Gerber replied taking a carton of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one.

“What about the fuckin’ cops? Christ! The place is crawling with them now. Two of Carruthers’s people are probably dead and the others ...” Rockell blurted, completely at a loss. “They’ll arrest us!”

Gerber’s face broke into a cynical smile. ”They might arrest you, but us...? On what grounds? We haven’t done anything!”

“Don’t be a bloody bastard!” Rockell spat with mounting frustration. “I was only carrying out instructions.”

“Stop worrying - the boss’ll look after you. You should know that,” Gerber replied resignedly showing his irritation at the younger man’s attitude.

“Just be warned. During that fire fight I realized that those two are no amateurs, they’re both pretty handy with a gun,” Rockell muttered.

Trichardt entered the lounge and moved towards the small bar behind which a few bottles were displayed on the mirrored shelves. He selected a Chivas Regal and poured a two-fingered tot to which he added ice from an ice bucket. He was about to move towards the sofa with his drink in his hand when a Rover sedan drew up in front of the porch.

Carruthers alighted with two other men, both dressed in summer suits, black homburgs on their heads and sporting the obligatory Rayban sunglasses - the epitome of the Tonton Macoute, Duvalier’s infamous Haitian secret police. It was evident that these two were special, they both exceptionally tall and clearly brutal and vicious: Carruthers’ bodyguards.

Carruthers strode into the lounge, his two men taking up station on the veranda.

After a cursory greeting, he collapsed into the other armchair opposite Trichardt.

Trichardt wasted no time.

“Listen, Carruthers, I’ve parted and still will part with a good deal of money, but your cronies have fucked this up. Now we’ve the bloody police involved. What’re we going to do now?”

Thomas Carruthers hiked up his trouser legs and propped his feet up on the coffee table. He too wore a suit, dark-grey. The man’s skin was as black as his eyes. He too was exceptionally tall, about six feet six and well built, his pectoral muscles visible beneath the taut white cotton shirt moulded to his chest. Clearly his nonchalant attitude was designed to keep at bay any further tirade that Trichardt was about to launch.

Trichardt offered him a drink.

He refused.

“Don’t concern yourself, Mr Trichardt. We’ll deal with these people. This has been an unfortunate setback - but remember, it’s not entirely our fault. Rockell is your man.”

“Unforeseen setback! Christ! That’s putting it mildly. What’s the latest you have on their whereabouts?” Trichardt ignored the reference to Rockell.

“They’re both wounded, she quite badly. They’re being held at the Stoke Bay Dental Clinic and Hospital, under police guard. I’m told that both have undergone surgery. The chief of the C.I.D. from Grand Cayman has flown in and assumed control of the operation; he has even subordinated the local police chief to his command. The man is said to be ex Scotland Yard. Had he not arrived and taken control, we would not have had this problem; the local chief I can handle.”

“Well, we may as well leave,” Trichardt said.

“I believe you’re right. You should leave before anything goes down. You don’t want to be implicated. Just leave your men here. But stay until tomorrow; nothing is going to happen before then.”

Trichardt realized that what the man said made sense. Those who had been involved in the shooting were dead.

What did the old proverb say? Dead men tell no tales.

The police would never prove they had any association with him. They worked for Carruthers, although the police probably couldn’t even prove that they had been in Carruthers’ employ. The superintendent could infer whatever he liked; there was no proof.

“All right, I’ll do that but I’ll leave tomorrow. Let’s see what develops. Does anybody know about this house?” he asked.

Carruthers shook his head. “Nobody.” He rose from the sofa, “I think I’ll take that drink now.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

I must look like an old man, I thought, hunched over and hanging with one hand on to a drip-stand on wheels for support. I shuffled slowly down the corridor towards Maria’s ward. Surprisingly, the good police superintendent had given my proposed visit his blessing. Still, the constable assigned to watch my ward never let me out of his sight. It wasn’t very clear to me whether the man was to watch or protect me - probably a combination of both, I imagined. Anyway, the doctor had insisted that I start moving around as soon as possible as this would speed up my recovery.

Maria was also given a ward to herself. She was awake but connected to a number of drips. However, in addition two plastic tubes ran from connections in the wall to her nostrils, bleeding in additional oxygen. She was deathly pale, the abrasions she had suffered stark against her almost white skin.

Seeing her in this condition squeezed my heart. I would have done anything to spare her this ordeal. I began to realize that my feelings for her ran deeper than I had originally imagined. I could still distinctly recall the agony and guilt I suffered before the doctor assured me that she was out of danger.

I gingerly sat down in the chair next to her bed, my head no more than a foot or so from her face. Painfully I leant forward and kissed her on the cheek.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” I asked softly taking the hand that lay on the bed outside the sheets into my own.

She cracked her eyes open to mere slits and smiled weakly.

“I’m happy to see you. Are you okay?” she whispered.

“I’m much better than you. I was so worried for you when we drove you to the hospital. It was horrific, there was blood all over.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pull through this quicker than you think,” she murmured quietly giving my hand a slight squeeze. I could feel the tremor of her fingers in my hand.

“Have you spoken to the superintendent yet?” I asked.

“No, he hasn’t been here yet.”

That surprised me. Maybe the man had accepted what I said to be true. I briefly recounted the story I had told the superintendent, emphasising that I never mentioned diamonds or cash; this had nothing to do with him. Obviously, the shootings and killings were a different matter.

I wasn’t sure she had taken this all in but I was not about to press her.

I was still there when the doctor arrived; a coloured man with a trim beard, dressed in a white coat and the invariable stethoscope around the neck.

“How is my beautiful patient feeling this morning?” he asked giving Maria a warm smile.

“Better,” Maria nodded.

The doctor looked at me. “Are you two an item?” he asked.

I didn’t know what made me say it, but without thinking, I replied: “Yes, She is my fiancée.”

As weak and sedated as she was, I could not help but see the look of surprise, which registered on her face. The best part was the smile she gave me. Had she interpreted this as a commitment?

Actually, it was true. What I had said at the spur of the moment did indeed reflect my heartfelt feelings at that moment. We were an item.

“Well, she’s a lucky lady - an inch either could have been fatal. Fortunately, she incurred little internal damage, certainly nothing we couldn’t fix. She should recover soon.” He indicated the seriousness of the situation. “She will need special care for a few days.”

He looked at me sternly, and then drew me aside out of earshot.

“Can you afford this?” he asked his concern apparent.

I nodded.

“Fine. Please leave us alone now,” he said in a professional tone, dismissing me. He turned his back and then drew the curtains around the bed.

I felt relieved to hear that she was over the worst. When I returned to my ward, I found the superintendent sitting in a chair next to my bed reading a newspaper, a cup of tea on my bedside locker.

“Morning,” he said, giving me the first smile I had seen from him. “I hope you don’t mind?”

He was casually dressed in cotton slacks and a short-sleeved light blue shirt with a pair of tan loafers on his feet.

“Not at all,” I replied. “Make yourself at home.” Did I sound sarcastic? Well, that was not the intention.

“Can I organize tea for you?” he asked politely.

“Yes, make it coffee.”

He disappeared and returned a minute later.

“I thought about your story. It seems to ring true, although I have the impression that you’ve omitted large chunks. But maybe these should not concern me, as they have no direct bearing on what has occurred on the island. Also, I should tell you that there is an executive jet at the airport with a filed flight plan that indicates South Africa as its final destination. Tell me; has this anything to do with you?”

The nurse arrived with my coffee, so we both remained silent until she left. I wondered how I should answer the question.

“I suppose one can’t tell a police officer anything in confidence. But I’ll have to chance it. The jet actually belongs to our business; we’ve just collected it from the USA, or at least, my partner has. He is piloting it,” I replied, wondering how much he knew.

“Mr Gavin McCreedy is it? Isn’t he accompanied by his wife and Miss Francine Mouton? Who is she?” he casually asked to me.

Christ! For a moment, I was stunned. How did he know these things?

“Just a friend.” I hoped my expression did not reveal my surprise.

“Really, not another fiancée is she?”

That just had to be sarcasm, I thought. Fuck you, but that’s not what I said.

“Of course not,” I replied.

“I just wondered. She is beautiful. But then so is Miss Donkin, wouldn’t you say?” he smiled.

I ignored the remark.

“Well, I did suggest to Mr McCreedy that he visit you, but should do so only during the evening. I said I’d assist with Customs, this only a short visit. I said that I would be pleased to give him a lift and suggested that this be late this evening. The two women should remain aboard. We don’t want to be conspicuous, do we? I also suggested that after the visit they not wait on this island but fly somewhere else nearby and return when you have recovered. Oh, incidentally, I left them my number so that they could communicate with me.” He sipped his tea.

I actually felt relieved. I had not known what Gavin would do when we did not arrive. They could not stay indefinitely aboard the aircraft and I was afraid that they might pass through immigration. If Whittle knew who they were, then maybe Trichardt also knew they were on the airfield. Somehow, I doubted that. Whittle would have to come by this information through some routine police check for an aircraft on the apron for longer than a day, the crew and passengers not deplaning. Something like that appeared not to have been investigated.

Gavin arrived later in the evening, with Whittle. They did not enter through the front entrance, but the superintendent brought him in through the back.

The shock on my partner’s face said it all.

“Christ! you look bloody awful. Are you all right?”

“Other than being bloody shot to pieces, I should survive,” I retorted rather heartily, grateful to see him. This gave me hope; maybe we would get off this damn island in one piece.

“I heard that you were both shot. How’s Maria?” he asked concernedly.

“She’s worse off but is recovering. At least, she’s out of danger. I’m sure the superintendent will take you to her.”

I filled him in on what had occurred since they had left. The poor man was aghast, the story I related about the ski-boat, and the shootings shocking him to the core.

“God Peter, don’t you think we should just give the man the money? God, I suppose we couldn’t get the diamonds back. I mean he’s trying to kill us!”

His body seemed to quiver with suppressed horror.

“Don’t be ridiculous, forget about that. It’s too late. I don’t think it’s about the money anymore. Probably nobody has ever dared do anything like this to him before. He’s filled with hatred and revenge - there’s no compromise anymore. He wants us dead; nothing else will do.”

“And what now?” Gavin asked.

“Well, I don’t think we can take this problem back to South Africa with us. He’s a lot more powerful there than here. We wouldn’t stand a chance and then there are the women to consider. If anything were to happen to us in our own country, it would probably be covered up - an unsolved crime, something done by black gangsters or the like. I doubt whether it would ever even get to court. Christ, Gavin! He’s pals with those racist diehards in BOSS; he might even be connected to them, who knows? What more would he need? They’re already murdering people, you know, the bodies are never found. God, didn’t we see enough of that in Angola?” I asked coldly.

“What are you going to do?” he asked not disguising his alarm.

“I’m staying here. At least I have Whittle, that’s a damn sight more than Trichardt and Carruthers have. Whittle is set on getting them, or at least it seems so.”

I could see that his mounting apprehension was gradually getting the better of him.

“What about my family and also Francine?” he demanded.

“They haven’t even thought of you yet. If we can end it on the island, I believe that will be the end of it, once and for all. The question is how to end it, and the only solution that I see is either they kill us or we kill them. We’ve really got ourselves into deep shit on this one!” I replied.

“Surely, you don’t propose killing them - I mean you are not setting out to do that, are you?”

My head had been spinning with possibilities as to how best to deal with this dilemma, and as fast as they came, I discarded them. There was no simple solution - Trichardt wasn’t going to go away.

“No, but if he continues to pursue us, then it just may happen. The police now know what the situation is and will not hesitate to take action.”

At that moment, Whittle entered.

“Well gentleman,” he said. “Is there anything you would like to add to what I already know?”

“No,” I replied, “But wouldn’t you like to put forward a suggestion or two, assuming you were in our shoes?” I ventured.

“Well, first off, your friend should climb aboard his aircraft and take it to somewhere else, just get away from the Caymans. That’ll keep the women safe.”

We both agreed.

“I believe you are decent people, and while you are not necessarily illegal in the eyes of the law, you have done something to really piss this man off. I mean, he seems to be screaming for revenge. Why else employ Carruthers? Choosing Carruthers to assist him has only aggravated the problem - they don’t come worse than Carruthers, believe me. But it is the appearance of Carruthers that makes your problem my problem. I want him and I will get him this time,” Whittle said.

Gavin and I just looked at each other. I certainly wasn’t going to say any more- it had all already been said. I was getting the distinct feeling that Whittle was using us as bait. Was I wrong?

“All right, I’ll leave you two alone for a while.” Whittle turned to look at Gavin. “Mr McCreedy, I’ll collect you in half an hour.”

A pregnant silence descended on the room. We did not speak for a while.

I wasn’t sure I had read Whittle correctly but it seemed Maria and I would not be leaving the island for a while. Anyway, we couldn’t leave if we wanted to; we had no papers as we had left these on the ski-boat. I wondered whether it was wise to approach Whittle on this. Would he help me retrieve our passports and my other documents? A passport was probably Maria’s only concern, as she required no other documents that I knew of.

The next day Gavin left the island, departing in the early evening with both his wife and Francine aboard. The two had not been able to visit us and as ungrateful and cold-hearted as this may sound, it was probably better that the two women not see us in our injured state. They headed for Fort de France, the capital of the island of Martinique, chosen because the French were known to be more accommodating when it came to South Africans and allowed South Africans entrance to their country at short notice.

Whittle continued his twenty-four watch on Maria and I; a security guard was never out of sight. As we recuperated, we were not permitted to leave the hospital building. After three days, the doctor had insisted that Maria leave her bed and she shuffled around the corridors hanging on to her drip stand. At least we could now sit together in the cafeteria although our ever-present guards always hovered nearby.

We decided that the moment we were sufficiently mobile, we would take an inter-island commercial flight to Martinique and join up with our companions. Whittle refused to listen to this and remained adamant , even threatening us with arrest, stating that we were not permitted to leave the island until he was absolutely certain that we were free from any further reprisals from Carruthers or Trichardt. He added that to the best of his knowledge, the two men were still on the island, although their exact whereabouts were unknown.

He was convinced it was not over yet.

After about a week, we received a surprise visit from Johnny and John Senior, returning our belongings. Our experiences had forged a friendship and it was a happy reunion. They told us that the police had grilled them incessantly after they had returned to the harbour at Bottom Bay, but had eventually accepted their story and that their intentions were merely designed to help us avoid Carruthers. Of course, the exchange of gunfire between the boats had come up, but by then the police had established that both Maria and I had been armed and that we had only responded when the ski-boat was fired on by the crew of the cabin cruiser. The police had our weapons.

All considered, we were in a unique position. We had our passports back, we had police protection, and we had sufficient funds to finance anything we might need. We had broken no laws; the only problem that confronted us was Trichardt and Carruthers.

Finally discharged from hospital, we decided we wanted to return to Bess and Christopher at the Beach Hotel. Initially Whittle baulked at the idea but then relented, provided no one objected to him placing a twenty-four hour guard on the hotel.

Our hired Ford Transit van was returned to us and we drove back to the hotel shadowed by a police vehicle.

Nothing prepared us for the incredulous looks of surprise and astonishment we received on our arrival at the hotel. Bess and Christopher ushered us into the bar, still trying to accept that that we were back and still alive!

Nevertheless, there was no missing their glances at the police vehicle and its occupants and when one of them took up station on the porch, their concern was obviously apparent.

I saw this.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s only here for us and won’t interfere with you at all. I’ve the superintendent’s word on it. He said he had no axe to grind with you, and in fact, is grateful for the assistance you gave us. He reckoned we could be dead had you not helped.” I tried to allay their concerns.

Their expressions left me with the impression that the recent developments were difficult for them to believe. However, once the superintendent had departed and the guard made himself nearly inconspicuous, it soon it was all smiles,

Both Maria and I felt naked without our automatics considering what we’d been through, but Whittle remained resolute.

”No guns,” he said. “You’re fortunate that no charges have been pressed for illegal possession of firearms. You will not get our weapons back.”

From Christopher, I established that he had eventually come clean and told Bess that he had warned us of the eminent arrival of Carruthers’s men allowing us to escape timeously. Apparently, she had soon overcome her shock and actually praised him for his courage.

“What will Carruthers actually do if he knew?” I asked in concern.

He merely shrugged his shoulders as if to say, there was little that could be done about it now.

“Carruthers must surely know that the police are protecting you and also protecting the hotel. I see no problems,” Bess said cheerfully.

I wish I could believe her.

This was far from over.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Carruthers was adamant. No move against the man and woman was to be taken while they still were held at the hospital at Stoke Bay. No warrant of arrest had been issued, but still it seemed that the police were expecting something to happen, as they had left two guards at the hospital. From an informer, they received continuous updates on the progress of the two patients and learnt that they were up and about, but that the hospital superintendent would not allow them to leave the confines of the hospital. Carruthers insisted that his men keep a low profile. None of them was permitted to leave the house or the local beach.

Trichardt fumed at this inactivity, and after a week gave instructions that the Learjet on Grand Cayman fly to Cayman Brac and that the pilot find accommodation near to the airport. Time and time again, he gave thought to abandoning the vendetta. Van Onselen would eventually have to return to South Africa, yes, but what about the woman? She would disappear forever; he would never be able to find her. He was convinced that it was she who had seen the opportunity once the landmine explosion killed Kowalski, and it was she who probably masterminded the operation.

If she escaped, he would never get his revenge.

The atmosphere in the bungalow was strained and tense. The men resented being cooped up and allowed access to only a small strip of beach directly opposite the house. They were permitted no trips into town, no nightclubs, no women, and little to drink. Carruthers’s call for patience began to fall on deaf ears as the first rumblings of discontent were heard.

A car arrived, and one of Carruthers’s homburg-clad henchmen alighted and climbed the wooden steps to the porch. Carruthers lay on the sun porch clad in a pair of surfer’s swimming trunks that took him to the knees. The man spoke briefly, and then drove off again.

Carruthers stood and slipped his feet into a pair of sandals and sauntered off in the direction of the beach, a towel over his shoulders and his head protected by a straw-hat.

Trichardt was not a man to flaunt his wealth but he had a penchant to play the part of a leader in industry, a successful and powerful businessman. He considered his daily attire and appearance the best medium through which to denote his success. A healthy tan was paramount. This conveyed a love of outdoor sports, sailing, golf, game fishing, and the other outdoor sun sports enjoyed by the rich. He lay on a collapsed deckchair on the beach, a beach umbrella nearby next to a cooler box. His skin glistened with suntan lotion and he was reading a folded newspaper. A portable radio played light music.

Carruthers grabbed another deck chair and sat down next to the burly Afrikaner.

“I’ve just heard that they’ve left the hospital. Van Onselen’s vehicle has been returned to him and they have driven back to the Beach Hotel, accompanied by a police vehicle. However, the police finally drove off leaving one officer to look after them or probably just to signify a police presence.”

Trichardt looked up from his newspaper and stared out over the ocean.

“Only one officer? Surely that can’t be?”

“That’s all he left. Our new police chief here probably thinks we will not do anything if we see that they are involved. Be sure, that guard must have some means of calling for back up if something goes wrong.” Carruthers replied.

Trichardt shook his head. “Dammit man, I’ve got to get home. I can’t hang around here sitting on my ass much longer; I’ve things to do back home. Once that woman leaves, I’ll never find her. I’ve got to deal with this now, while they’re at this hotel.”

Carruthers lay back in the deck chair pulling the hat over his eyes, muffling his voice.

“Look, I’ve been thinking about this for days. I want to deal with these fuckin’ people in one go, that includes the owners of the hotel. I’ll deal with all these motherfuckers one time. You stay here at the bungalow, just give me Rockell to report back to you and I’ll make sure that you get you monies’ worth.”

“What are you going to do?” Trichardt asked raising his eyebrows questioningly.

Carruthers grinned wickedly. “First I’ll take out that fuckin’ policeman, and then I’ll kill the others, and burn the whole place down with their bodies in it. Destroy the bloody evidence. It’ll take months before the cops sort through that shit and come up with any evidence, if ever.”

“I want to be there,” Trichardt insisted, still consumed by his desire for vengeance. “God, I’ve waited long enough for this. I want to see them dead.”

Carruthers sat up and turned to face Trichardt. “No, it’s too dangerous - we must remain distant from all activity. If things go wrong, we’re not implicated. It’s the only way to survive in this game,” he countered.

Reluctantly, Trichardt agreed. It was pointless being stupid about this.

The next day Carruthers sent out two of his men to reconnoitre the hotel and its surroundings. They posed as telephone linesmen complete with uniforms, a van, and ladders. They even entered the hotel premises under the pretext of checking the wiring. They determined exactly where the police officer’s place of concealment was.

“Hiding the guard - it seems the police want us to walk into a trap.”

“Bloody cops, that’s why it’s dangerous to jump before looking. There’s a tropical storm on its way. It should hit the island sometime tomorrow - that’s when we’ll attack. It’ll give us excellent cover,” Carruthers snarled.

“How many men do you propose to use for this operation?”

“Six - that ought to sufficient.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

The storm had not quite reached hurricane status. It approached slowly from the east, its epicentre still just beyond the Caribbean in the Atlantic. The atmosphere was grey and heavy and a mass of turbulent cloud scudded across the sky. A southerly wind had replaced the usual easterly trade winds, slowly increasing in velocity, causing a wild chop on the sea and whitecaps racing across the waves. The palm trees bent before the onslaught, the green palm-fronds beginning to stream horizontally in the wind, accompanied by a banshee of whistles, moans, howls and the occasional crash.

From the garages, Christopher produced shutters manufactured from solid wooden board. I decided to give him a hand. We placed them across the windows, using special slots affixed to the frames to accept them. With bolts and nails, we secured them into place as the temperature plummeted.

The wind whipped our clothes and to communicate we had to shout. It swept up anything not secured, and drove it across the ground. I saw a steel dustbin, the size of a forty-four gallon drum, tumbling and rolling before the force of the wind.

“It’s better to be safe - you never know what these storms will do. They suddenly change direction or increase in strength and before you know it, you’re in a full-blown hurricane. Just wait until the rain arrives - that’s another experience,” Christopher shouted, the wind taking his words so I was hardly able to hear what he said over the roar of the approaching storm.

“Com’on, let’s get inside.”

The first drops of rain arrived, falling almost horizontally. He opened the door and hung onto it while I slipped through. We had to both hold it to bar it from the inside.

I saw that the black police constable had abandoned his hiding place on the veranda, not that I blamed him. He now sat on a barstool. I smiled at him.

“I don’t blame you,” I said smiling.

“Mon!” he said. “I think we’re in for quite a blow here.” He returned my smile.

“Where are you going to station yourself now?” I asked.

“This place has an attic with a small window overlooking the approach from the main road. I think I’ll keep a watch from there. If this gets any worse you’d be mad to be walking around out there.” He was obviously convinced that an attack in this weather was not possible.

“Well, if you need anything just give me a shout, okay?”

He nodded and made his way up the stairs clasping a Royal Enfield .303 rifle, a relic from the First or Second World War, but still a lethal weapon. He also wore a Brown belt with a holster, which held what I recognized to be a Webley .45 revolver, the butt protruding from the leather to which a lanyard was attached with the other end clipped to his belt. Provided he knew how to use these somewhat antiquated weapons, we appeared to have sufficient firepower.

A few additional guns would be better, I thought.

Maria and Bess were preparing a few kerosene storm lanterns, and had them standing on the bar counter, Bess carefully filling them from a round tin canister with a wire-handle and spout. She saw me watching.

“The power is sure to go out. It always does in these storms,” she said.

“We’ve even got two kerosene stoves,” Maria chipped in, “so, we won’t go hungry either.”

Having completed their task the two women disappeared into the kitchen. Just Christopher and I sat in the kitchen.

“Come with me,” he said leading me down a passage that led to a storeroom. This had a few stand-alone shelves filled with tinned foodstuffs, bags of sugar, bottles and containers of cleaning materials, and a host of other items. From a box labelled Hill’s Jams, he extracted two cloth-wrapped items, which he handed to me.

I immediately recognized the feel and weight.

“Christ, Chris! Where the hell did you get these? If Whittle knew about this you’d be in shit up to your eyeballs, my friend,” I blurted.

“Do you really think that one policeman is going to stop our friend Carruthers? Let me tell you, I know him - he’s fuckin dangerous. After what’s happened, there’s only one-way to stop them - that’s kill them. They’re on the island, and I believe I know where they’re holed up - the Montrose place; it’s a fancy beach bungalow directly across the island from us, no more than two miles away. There’s a track that crosses the island. If they’re coming, that’s where it will be from.”

I looked at the weapons; they were two identical Glock 9mm automatics, each with a full magazine. They were clean and ready for use.

“Take them both,” he said.

“What do you mean - both?” I asked surprised. “And you?”

“We’ve got our own,” he replied and pulled a Beretta from under his shirt. “Give the other to Maria - she seems to know what to do with it.” He gave me a condescending smile.

Christ, if Whittle found us with these we’d never get off the island.

“Oh, by the way; this time we’re not waiting for them to shoot first,” he added. He had drawn the Beretta from where it had been hidden beneath his shirt. He twirled it by the trigger-guard and then let it slap back into the palm of his hand, the barrel pointed straight ahead, ready to fire.

“Impressive,” I murmured. He laughed. He probably imagined himself a triggerman, I thought. Never be over-confident, that’s how you get killed!

I made my way to our bedroom and slipped the automatics under the mattress.

During the course of the day, the wind continued to increase and anything that wasn’t tied or battened down was swept before it. The sea changed to a cauldron of churning water and flying foam, the horizon no longer discernible. Huge waves battered the outer reefs, and a seemingly never-ending mass of dirty froth and water surged over the exposed coral, accompanied by a continuous succession of squall lines, which followed one upon the other, bringing torrents of rain. The lagoon was no longer a safe-haven.

The deluge ran off the high ground, the water seeking the sea, and the ground beyond the hotel became a raging torrent. I marvelled at the palms bending horizontal before the storm. Miraculously, their trunks did not snap.

By eight in the evening, it was dark. We sat at the bar eating a light meal of fish, fries and salad. Without a flicker or any other warning, the power failed, interrupting our dinner.

“Dammit, I was waiting for this. Mon, the power-lines are down. It always happens,” Christopher grumbled. He dropped his knife and fork onto his plate and then rummaged under the counter. He produced a flashlight, its beam flashing over the walls and us. Soon the hurricane lamps were lit and he took one of the lamps to check on the fuse boxes to make sure that it was the lines that were down and not some other fault. Bess had gone back to the kitchen to hang one of the lanterns.

Sitting on a stool next to me, Maria leant against me and took hold of my arm.

“Do you know where we should be? In bed. This is just the right weather for some fun. I’m better now and I’m horny.” She beamed a smile at me: there no mistaking the ‘come-on’ expression on her face, her dark eyes flashing.

“Let’s go to bed and forget the world that’s going mad around us.” She slid off her stool but still hung onto my arm.

I laughed. “You are definitely better.”

“Bet your ass I am - just you wait and see.” She grinned and dragged to me off my stool and led me to our room.

I closed the bedroom door behind us. She immediately moved towards me, moulding her body against me; we both found each other’s lips and kissed passionately, her tongue probing mine. I could smell her, a mixture of shampoo, and a scent I did not recognize. The nearness of her, the feeling of flesh against flesh, pushed all the right buttons; I was aroused, aware of my erection. She lifted my pullover and t-shirt over my head and then undid my belt, my jeans dropping to my ankles. She wore a woollen top, which I removed and then unclasped her bra. I rolled her nipple under my thumb pulling her hard against me. She broke away and pulled me towards the bed.

I ran my hands over her body as we lay down, gripping her firm butt. I stripped off her jeans and panties. We crawled under the sheets. She rolled me onto my back and then straddled me, and taking me in her hand, she guided me in her.

“I love you,” she whispered, “Are you serious about me being fiancée?” This was the first time she had brought up my remark. Clearly, it had been on her my mind for some time.

There was no turning back. Yes, I did love her.

“I love you,” I said and kissed her passionately. “I want you as my wife.”

Soon an orgasmic shout of victory rent the air. I wondered whether any others had heard this over the sounds of the storm.

We both fell asleep still clinging to one another.

Chapter Thirty-Six

An insistent loud thumping sound, other than the shrieking, and howling wind, woke me. There it was again - somebody pounding on the door. I threw off the sheet and felt my way to the door, opening it a crack. Christopher stood in the passageway, a flashlight in his hand. He looked at my nakedness and studiously ignored it.

“I think we’re getting visitors. Samuel - that’s the cop, says he saw lights moving outside.”

“Christ! They must be insane!”

“I think not - nobody will come to help us with this storm. The power’s down and so is the bloody telephone. We can’t call for help!” I saw the concern and anxiety etched in his features.

In a flash I suddenly, recalled the satellite phone.

“Give me a number to phone. I’ll get us help,” I exclaimed. He rattled off a number.

“Come inside,” I said.

Maria lay on the bed, the sheet pulled up to her chin, a bewildered look on her face. The light from the lantern revealed the clothing strewn over the floor, it obvious what had occurred. I pulled the satchel that contained the satellite phone from under the bed, opened it, and set it up, the ready light eventually flashing. Again, he repeated the number. I entered the prefix numbers followed by the digits he rattled off and soon heard the phone ringing. I handed it to Christopher. I pressed a button, and the phone was suddenly on speaker.

“Royal Cayman Island Police,” I heard.

“This is the Beach Hotel. This is Christopher Bennett speaking. We’re being attacked. Please tell Superintendent Whittle..... Hurry!” Christopher shouted.

“Difficult to get help to you in this weather,” the voice replied dubiously.

“Just tell Whittle and let him fuckin’ decide what to do! He knows how serious this is,” he shouted.

“I’ll tell him right away. He’s here in the police barracks,” came the reply.

He replaced the receiver and I switched the phone off.

“What are we going to do now?” I asked.

“Get dressed - you don’t want to be caught without clothes. Make sure you’re warm and follow me.” he said with a cynical smile, again looking at my nakedness.

I had the distinct feeling that somehow I was going to land up outside in this god-awful weather, again due to Trichardt and his associates. We chose our clothes with care and dressed for the storm - jeans, sweaters, and waterproof anoraks. I pulled the two Glocks from under the mattress and handed one to Maria. She took it with wide-eyed surprise.

“Where did these come from?”

I nodded towards Christopher.

“God, we owe you,” she said, expertly pulling the ejection mechanism back and sliding a round into the chamber, then flicking the safety on. I followed suit.

“Look, I know our way around this building so let’s extinguish the lamps. I’m going up to Samuel. Just wait here.”

The islander bounded up the stairs. A minute later, we heard the crack of a rifle shot followed by the faint chatter of an automatic weapon from outside. Christopher came down the stairs two at a time.

“All the windows are barricaded. If they try to open these, they’ll make a helluva noise. Watch the doors.” He indicated to Maria and I. “You two take the front entrance; we’ll look after the back. There are two very small windows in the kitchen that aren’t shuttered. They’ll give you a view of the porch. You should be able to see if anybody approaches.” He pulled an object from his pocket and threw it towards me. “Here, it’s another full magazine for the Glock.”

Maria and I pressed our faces close to the window. Although sheltered by the veranda roof, the rain still splattered the windowpanes. The position was not ideal; our field of vision did not cover certain areas of the porch. In particular, the wall of the building was hidden, which would allow somebody to sidle unobserved along its length and approach the door.

The front entrance consisted of a stout oak double door split in the middle, the panels at least two to three inches thick. It had expansion bolts top and bottom, penetrating deep into the frame that secured the one door when locked. The other panel had two locks, the one an automatic latch lock, the other a large normal type lock with an excessively large ornamental key. We had locked both when we closed the building against the storm.

Every few minutes I would walk down the two passages to make sure that Carruthers’ men weren’t trying to enter through any of the windows. I was never away from the foyer for more than a minute or so. Maria stayed in the foyer watching the front door. I was sure they would try to gain entry through either the front or back entrance. The windows presented too much difficulty.

Suddenly there was an enormous blast. The shockwave threw me to the floor, the interior of the building brightly illuminated by the flash. When I looked up, I saw that one door panel had been blown off its hinges while the other hung askew. I was stunned, my ears rang, and I was nearly deaf. I saw Maria pick herself up from the floor. The weather blasted in through the entrance, the rain penetrating into the foyer. Within a few seconds, I had grabbed Maria’s arm and pulled her into a dark corner.

The next moment a figure wearing a rain slicker stepped into the entrance, silhouetted against the dim night sky. There was no mistaking the automatic pistol he cradled in his hands. He looked around; unable to see us hunkered down in the dark corner. I never hesitated; I remembered what Christopher had said. I lifted the automatic, snapped off the safety and fired. The figure jerked as the bullet hit him; he staggered backwards and then fell to the ground. Neither Maria nor I moved. A few seconds later, the man’s heels drummed a short tattoo on the ground and then lay still.

I thought that the pistol’s muzzle flash might have given our position away. I pulled Maria out of the corner and then looked round the protruding wall to keep the entrance under observation. I could feel Maria’s body against my back and was aware of her face inches from my own.

The next moment there was a double thud as something heavy bounced on the wooden floor. I peered through the darkness and immediately fell back, dragging Maria with me, squeezing us both against the wall.

“Grenade!” I yelled. The shout was pure reflex inherited from the war years. We flattened ourselves.

The grenade exploded with a blinding flash, the concussion blasting through the building. Fortunately, the corner of the wall behind which we had taken cover protected us from the shrapnel. I expected a charge through the door immediately after the explosion. I crawled forward on my stomach to the corner. I was right; two figures suddenly charged the entrance, firing rapidly into the bar.

I fired four or five shots in the direction of where I had seen the muzzle flashes and was rewarded with a scream. One figure crashed to the floor and the other made a hasty retreat. As he turned to flee, I caught a movement to my left and saw Maria step out, her automatic clasped in both hands. Two shots rang out. The fleeing man arched his back and fell over backwards.

“That takes care of three,” she said coldly.

I became aware of movement behind me and turned to find Christopher and Bess approaching, both clutching automatics.

Christopher saw the three bodies. “Fuck!” was all he said.

“Grab whatever is most important -keep it light! Leave the rest. We’ve have to get out of here; we’re too vulnerable in the building. Christ knows what they’re planning next. I’m sorry, they got Samuel, he was hit in the chest,” Christopher said.

The police officer’s death shocked me. Carruthers clearly meant business. I wondered what Trichardt would think of the shooting of a police officer when he was told of this. This surely added a new dimension to the vendetta.

Maria and I raced back to the room, grabbed only our papers, the van keys and the satchel containing the satellite phone, we then quickly made our way back to the bar. As we entered the foyer, I became aware of a faint smell of petrol. For a moment, I was at loss as to where this came from, but then I saw the pillars supporting the portico light up as they caught the reflection of a fire. I realized what was happening.

“Jeez! Everybody out! They’ve doused the building with petrol and set it alight,” I shouted. Fanned by the wind, the fire took hold like a blast furnace; in seconds, it was a roaring inferno fed by the old timbers of the building.

We would make excellent targets when we exited the building, silhouetted against the firelight.

“Come!” Christopher said. “Follow me.”

We ran down a passageway and then into a room at the end. This had a door, which led outside, barred by a stout crossbar that fitted into sockets. He removed this and then indicated that the two of us throw our weight against it. It burst open at our second attempt and we stumbled down the few steps that led to the ground.

The door was on the leeside of the building, the fire on the opposite windward side, so we were still in darkness. The storm whipped around us so we could not hear each other, but Christopher gestured that we follow him. He led us away from the hotel towards the high ground, which was, dotted with outcrops of coral, trees, and bushes. Other than the palm trees, everything else was now leafless. The rain came down in sheets striking us from behind, making it difficult to walk, as we sloshed through the raging torrents that gushed down the incline.

I turned round, my eyes mere slits trying to look through the driving rain and wind. The whole building was now on fire, the flames fanned like a blowtorch in the wind. God, I’d never seen anything burn like that; I was sure it would burn to the ground in minutes. There would be nothing to salvage.

Christopher grabbed my shoulder and urgently jerked me into motion again. We finally made it to a large coral outcrop and took shelter behind this from the wind and rain. He handed me Samuel’s rifle and indicated I should keep watch.

I stared over the top of the outcrop into the rain and wind. The burning building helped illuminate the ground between the hotel and us. I could see four people standing away from the building watching the fire. I brought the rifle to my shoulder but then thought better of it. It seemed that they had not yet noticed that we had escaped. Clearly, they were waiting for us break-out from the fire so that they would be able to pick us off at their leisure. We had left just in time.

The women hunkered down at the foot of the outcrop, which afforded them some protection against the worst of the weather. Christopher was speaking to them, gesticulating in the direction of the opposite side of the island. He then rose and climbed to lie prone next to me. He brought his face right next to mine.

“The fuckin’ bastards. I’m going to kill them. They’re going to make their way back to the Montrose place - that’s the only place they can go. They probably think we died in the fuckin’ fire,” he shouted.

“Chris, take it easy,” I said, trying to placate him. He was wild, almost out of control; hell-bent determined to inflict death and pain on the perpetrators, throwing caution to the wind

“You don’t have to fuckin’ come if you don’t want to,” he shouted again, but I could hear the challenge in his voice. “These motherfuckers are trying to kill us; we’ve every right to kill them. Damn them! Come’on, let’s get them - they’ll never expect us.”

What was I suppose to do? I couldn’t let him go on his own - he’d think me a coward. He was right, of course. We had every right to go after them. If we didn’t, they’d kill us on their next try. We had just been lucky.

“Where are the fuckin’ cops?” I yelled.

“I don’t know - we can’t wait! Give me the rifle.” I didn’t know what to do so I handed it to him. He didn’t wait for a reply, took the rifle, and scrambled down the outcrop.

Christ! I thought did I have a choice.

I bent down and shouted at Maria.” I’m going with him.”

She just stared at me.

We scrambled up the slight incline leading away from the shore. With no light behind us, there was no chance of us being seen in this rain and wind.

“We’re damn lucky,” Christopher said. “We’ve missed the worst of the storm.” I wondered how much worse it could have been! “It only hit us a glancing blow,” he shouted.

Well, I was glad I wasn’t going to be around for the real thing. I had heard somewhere that the Caymans experience more hurricanes than anywhere else does in the world. We were having a foretaste, which was enough.

As we got further from the sea, the storm seemed to become less intense, although it still shoved us around. We had to walk hunched over, careful that we were not bowled over.

We must have walked for at least an hour in this manner. I had no idea where we were going; I just dutifully followed the outline of the human frame in front of me, moving my limbs like an automaton. He didn’t stop; he relentlessly plodded on. My side ached; I hadn’t yet properly recovered and this sudden exertion wasn’t helping.

I collided with him. He had stopped. I looked around but could not see anything other than trees and bush. He pointed and then I saw the outline of a bungalow and the faintest of lights.

“That’s it.”

“Tell me Chris, what the fuck do you propose to do now? Are we going to charge the place, or what? You must be bloody insane. You’ll get us killed!” I said loudly. “They’re professional killers! We don’t stand a chance.”

“Bullshit! We’ll waylay the four that are bound to return from the hotel. They’ll come this way. They’ll never be expecting it - it’ll be a bloody turkey shoot. There can’t be more than three or four in the house.”

He indicated to me where I was to take up position behind a thicket of scrub that had somehow managed to retain its foliage in the storm. He took up a similar position about forty yards away.

We had only waited about fifteen minutes when I saw the lights of an approaching vehicle. Christopher had also seen it, standing up to look. We had to be at least a hundred and fifty yards from the road. As the vehicle neared, I saw the blue lights flashing on its roof. Thank God, I thought; it was the police. At least Christopher couldn’t try anything stupid now. I moved over to where he was standing.

He swore under his breath. “It’s the damn police. We better go across to them.”

The occupants of the police vehicle had already alighted when we got to them and were walking towards the bungalow. Although he was wrapped in a slicker and wearing a helmet that resembled a firefighter’s hat, I immediately recognized Whittle.

“What are you people doing here?” he shouted.

This was one time where I was going to leave the talking to Christopher.

“I’m looking for Carruthers,” Christopher snarled.

Whittle laughed. “You bloody fool,” he said. ”They’re gone - all of them. I’ve the two women in the Land Rover.” He gestured towards the station wagon. ”They told me you were on your way here to the Montrose house, that’s why I’m here. What were you planning to do?”

“What do you mean they’re gone? Christ, they shot your man, we shot a few of them, and then they burnt the hotel down probably thinking we were in it,” he shouted, his voice brimming with scorn.

“I know. Now calm down. They’re gone. You can be sure the house is empty. If you’re an accomplice in getting three people killed and two seriously hurt, you don’t stick around, do you?”

“Where have they gone to?” I asked.

“Mr van Onselen! Why is it that whenever there’s trouble you seem to be around? You never fail to surprise me.” He was clearly being sarcastic.

I ignored the tone. “Where?” I repeated.

“Who knows? In this weather, they can’t leave the island; not be sea or air. So, they’ve probably gone underground. You realize that if we don’t find Trichardt and Carruthers with the men who committed these murders, they’ll walk free. We’ve no direct evidence against them. Their only survivor is wounded so badly I don’t think he’ll make it. Who says that those staying at the house were working for Carruthers? How do we prove who is working for whom, huh?” A frustrated smile twisted his lips.

“You said two survivors. Who’s the other?” I asked.

“Samuel, he’s chest shot, he’s bad, but he’ll make it,” Whittle replied.

I was relieved to hear that, we had left him for dead.

“How did he get away from the fire?”

“You won’t believe it! He rolled out of the attic window on to the veranda roof and dropped to the ground. The storm blew the flames away from him. He managed to crawl to safety. Tough bastard,” Whittle said, but I could hear the tremor in his voice. He was proud of the man and his bravery.

The rain came down and the wind still blew a gale but there was no doubt it was abating.

“The storm’s passing,” Christopher said.

Whittle nodded. He looked at Christopher. “Don’t worry, they can’t fly out. The airport is closed; it’s flooded. There is debris all over the place. It’ll take a day or two to clean up.”

“Then it’s going to be by boat,” Christopher responded vehemently.

I thought of the cabin cruiser. That was big enough to handle this weather, now that the storm was passing. It would be a rough ride but the boat could do it.

“ Com’on!” I said. “Let’s make for Cotton Tree Bay, that’s where it’s lying at anchor - the cruiser that tried to wipe us out on the ski-boat. They must be heading there.”

A constable wearing a slicker over his Island police uniform approached,

“Sir, the house is empty,” he said.

I thought so,” said Whittle. “Well, there you have it; what did I say?” He addressed Christopher, who spat an expletive.

Whittle seemed to have decided on a new tactic with regard to the Carruthers investigation. I was surprised that he had not asked whether we were carrying guns; I could recall the paranoia on the previous occasion. Clearly Whittle had to know that we had weapons otherwise how else had those been killed at the hotel. Maybe he thought it better that we were armed, considering that Carruthers had seemingly had not relented in the quest to kill us.

He had not yet asked who had killed whom. No doubt, he’d get round to that. Maybe he thought poor Samuel had done all the shooting.

He must have read my mind. “I’ll take the rifle, thank you,” he said to Christopher.

Reluctantly he handed the rifle over.

“I took that from Samuel after he was shot,” Christopher said.

“I know - pity you did not rescue him,” Whittle replied sarcastically.

“I thought he was dead!” The islander responded, not liking the insinuation.

Whittle did not reply.

We all climbed into the Land Rover, which at my request, drove us to the Beach Hotel to collect our van.

It was a dismal sight. The hotel had burnt to the ground; the super-heated wind-fed flames had spared nothing. Only the stone walls still stood, charred and blackened. Nothing even smouldered; the rain had extinguished the fire once the worst of it had burnt itself out. There was nothing to salvage.

Poor Bess broke down in tears and wailed loudly; Maria had her arms around her shoulders trying to console her. Whittle eventually persuaded the women to get into the Land Rover. I took the Ford Transit van from the garages, which fortunately were untouched, being too far from the hotel building. We drove to the Cotton Tree Hotel.

Christopher and Bess asked to be dropped off at family of theirs on the island, but I insisted that they stay at the hotel at my expense, at least until the morning.

The Cotton Tree Hotel was built on a knoll overlooking the natural harbour and one look was enough to tell us that no boats would be leaving any time soon. The natural opening to the lagoon was a maelstrom of waves and churning water - no boat could get out.

We finally managed to get somebody to respond to our insistent banging on the door. We took three rooms and by mutual agreement with the concierge decided to complete the paper formalities at reception the next morning.

Maria and I were cold and exhausted. Clearly, my body was not yet ready for any wild exertions and every movement was now painful. Not bothering with a clean up, I just stripped off my wet clothes and climbed under the sheets. Maria opted for a shower. I was asleep before she emerged from the bathroom.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

I woke to find that the wind had stopped and the room pervaded by a grey light. The sky was a dirty mass of scudding cloud. The storm had passed.

Maria was still asleep. I got out of bed and walked over to the window that overlooked the lagoon. Out at sea the aftermath of the storm still lingered, the mouth to the lagoon still a raging mass of water, but it had abated considerably overnight. The cabin cruiser still rode at anchor, its cockpit area covered by an awning. Nobody appeared to have boarded the boat.

I wanted to contact Gavin and could have done so using a tedious process of being patched through to the aircraft’s radios. But he was probably not aboard and had in all likelihood booked into a hotel. The aircraft’s radios would be off. I would just have to wait until he contacted us on the satellite phone.

It was ten in the morning when I went down stairs and completed the book-in formalities. I paid with my American Express Gold Card. I asked to borrow binoculars, which the reception clerk surprisingly was able to produce, I promising to return them soonest.

I needed a high vantage point and returned to the room to find Maria in the shower again.

She stepped out of the bathroom with a large white towel wrapped round her body. She walked up to me, pecked me on the lips, and then grabbed my crotch, a knowing smile on her face.

“Christ! I haven’t even showered yet.”

“You showered yesterday, didn’t you?”

I nodded an affirmation. What the hell was I suppose to do?

Sometime later, I slipped off the bed, took the binoculars, and still naked, strolled over to the bay window. I focussed the glasses on the yacht. It was still deserted. I wondered whether I wasn’t making a mistake. Maybe they had some other means of leaving the island. Surely, they would not hang around after the previous day’s events. Where would they be staying on the island? They wouldn’t return to the Montrose place. I turned round and looked at Maria. She had fallen asleep again.

I showered and slipped my still slightly damp and dirty clothes on for a second time. I walked to the building next door, which housed a general dealer’s store. This was still barricaded against the storm, but at least the front door was open. I bought a few toiletries, underwear, and a pair of cotton slacks and shirt. I also found a decent pair of running shoes.

Once upstairs in the room I again studied the cruiser through the glasses. A dingy with a small outboard and two black men had just drawn up alongside. I didn’t recognize anybody.

Maria was getting dressed. Her clothes were dry, as she had hung them in front a small fan the night before.

“Somebody’s aboard the boat,” I said.

She came over and took the binoculars from me.

“There are only two of them. They look like island people.”

I had to agree. They probably were there to inspect the boat for damage and clean up after the storm.

“Well, let’s keep an eye on it. Come; let’s find some breakfast, I’m bloody starving.”

We found Christopher and Bess in the dining room.

We all were hungry and opted for the Breakfast Special, a full English breakfast that even included kidneys and savoury mince.

We had just left the dining room when Whittle’s Land Rover drew up.

“You seem to have recovered,” he smiled.

“Yes, it’s amazing what sleep and a hot shower can do,” I replied.

“We’re on our way to the hotel.” He said.

“Aren’t you looking for Carruthers and Trichardt?” I asked making a show of expressing disappointment.

“Why should I be looking for them? What have they done? You still don’t seem to understand - I’ve no charge and no evidence. Did you see either of them at the hotel? No, you didn’t, so who says they had anything to do with it? What I have to do is find the actual murderers and their weapons.”

The man was pissing me off.

”You’re being obstructive. You know perfectly well that they’re involved!” I said exasperated.

“I have no evidence, so don’t tell me how to do my job.” He spun round and walked back to the Land Rover. As he was about to climb in the vehicle, he turned back to me. “Don’t you go trying anything on your own.” He looked at Christopher. “That goes for you as well. I’ll arrest both of you and hold you until this is cleared up, even if it takes a year. Capisce?”

Neither of us replied. With a jerk, the Land Rover drove off.

“Fuckin’ cops,” Christopher hissed.

I looked at Christopher questioningly.

“Chris, what are we going to do if these people get on that boat and try and leave the island?”

“It’s simple - we can’t let them leave.”

“How’re we going to stop them?”

He was silent for a few seconds, and then smiled.

“Let me phone Johnnie and his Dad. I’ll tell them what’s happened. Maybe they can help.”

He went back into the hotel to find out if the phones were working. He was gone for about twenty minutes and then emerged and joined me on the porch. He was grinning.

“The sea is still wild but Bottom Bay is on the leeside of the island, it’s not nearly as bad. They’re going to bring the “Dream Island” around to this side. They say they’ve done the engines and it needs a trial run.”

Christopher jerked his head towards the cruiser in the lagoon.

“If those bastards think they’re going to get away on that, they better think again. I’m going to get Carruthers and whoever else was responsible for what happened - we’ve don’t even have our hotel anymore. To top it all, the bloody place was not insured. Bess stopped paying the premiums months ago. I can’t let them get away with that. ”

I realized the enormity of the loss they had suffered because of Maria and me. I needed to discuss that with my friends.

Johnnie and John Senior stepped out of the dingy onto the coral gravel shore at Bottom Bay. The sun had just set.

“Gawd!” the old man said. “That was hairy. It was okay on the other side but once we rounded West End Point I thought we were in the Himalayas, the bleeding waves were so enormous, there’s still a helluva sea running.” He turned round and looked out into the lagoon and pointed at the cruiser. “I suppose that the boat you’re watching. Don’t worry, I know her, she’s the “Moby Dick”, we’re bigger and faster than her.”

I took him by the arm. “Come inside. Have a drink and join us for supper. I’m paying - anyway I still owe you a bundle for all your help.”

We walked into the dining room. Bess, Maria, and Christopher were already seated. They all smiled on seeing the two new arrivals.

Christopher jumped up. “Look what we’ve got here! The bloody Campbell’s have arrived.” There were joyous greetings all round.

Halfway through the meal John Senior took a trip to the front of the hotel. He smiled as he sat down and reported to us.

“That “Moby Dick” is being prepared for departure. I was watching it. The crew brought a few drums out on a dingy and are now busy refuelling her. You won’t see them from here; they got their dingy tied to the other of the yacht.”

Everybody stopped eating, Christopher and I looked at each other.

“You never saw anybody else come aboard?” Christopher asked. John Senior shook his head.

“I think that if they’re planning to leave they’ll wait till daybreak. Now is not a good idea; the tide is on its way out; the cross-currents are vicious,” the old man said.

I looked at John Senior. “What’s your fuel situation?”

He smiled. “We could go to Grand Cayman and back and do it again and again.”

“I think the men should sleep aboard the “Dream Island”. They’re obviously getting ready to depart at a moment’s notice. The women can stay her,” Christopher said.

I wasn’t going to have that; Maria was not to be left behind. If we were lucky enough to do what we set out to do, I was not going to return to Cayman Brac or Grand Cayman.

“Sorry friend, I’m taking Maria with me. Don’t argue; that’s final,” I said testily.

He remained silent biting his lip looking at Maria.

“Peter’s right, I’m going with, no matter what,” she insisted.

“And I’m also going with you. That was my hotel!” Bess protested.

“Okay,” Christopher said shrugging his shoulders.

We took everything we had out to the cruiser, needing to make two trips with the dingy.

I wondered whether the crew of the “Moby Dick” would associate the “Dream Island” with us - did they know enough to do so? I asked Christopher who spoke to Johnny and John Senior. Christopher waved me over.

“We think we should leave the island now and wait for their boat out at sea. The ocean’s calmed considerably.”

“How the hell are we going to know they’re making a move?” I asked.

“We’ve got radar. We make our way down to West End Point, drop anchor in the shelter of the headland and wait. We won’t miss their boat on the radar; they will be no more than a few miles away and will believe they’re not being followed,” Johnny said.

It sounded like a good plan - at least we would not have to contend with Whittle. I was sure he was keeping a close eye on us - not that he believed we would initiate an attack on our own, but he probably thought Carruthers hadn’t finished with us. Also, he probably still believed he had a score to settle.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

John Senior was at the helm. The twin diesel engines rumbled, spewing blue smoke, they still cold. The electric winch whined as the anchor came aboard, the chain rattling through the huge steel eyes in the forward gunwale. With the engines barely idling, we made our way towards the break in the coral reef and as we closed with the gap, I got an idea of what the Campbells meant. The mouth was one enormous cauldron of foam, crosscurrent waves, and turbulent sea. As we entered this, I felt the engines speed up, the boat’s bow lifting as John Senior applied more power. We slammed into a few medium-sized cresting waves that thumped against the bow, the displaced water flying out sideways.

A few minutes later, we were out at sea. It was still rough and for a short while, I was forced to work at not throwing my recently eaten supper overboard. I looked at Maria - she didn’t look well either. However, after a short while we found our sea legs.

Doing a slow six to seven knots, we made our way towards West End Point leaving the “Moby Dick” still riding at anchor. Scattered cloud scudded past a near full yellow moon. It was too cold for just a shirt and I slid into my anorak. This hid the Glock stuck in my waistband. Johnny came to sit next to me on the bench that was affixed to the rear deck strake.

“If we see those two bastards on the cruiser and they open fire, how are we going to stop them?” I asked.

Johnny ignored my question and started a conversation on a very different tack.

“A couple of years ago, my Dad and I were seriously involved in smuggling. I regret this now, but we did handle a fair number of parcels of coke, marijuana and the other stuff. I mean, everybody did; it was that damn lucrative; you had to give it a shot - it was easy money. Of course, the Americans were going nuts and had the US Coast Guard running all over the Caribbean - they even had some deal with the Cayman Government. The British were trying to help them stop the drugs getting to the US, but it was the Americans who were the ones truly organized - even today their Coast Guard still has free access to Caymanian waters.”

He produced a bottle of rum from a locker, took a generous swig, and then held it out to me. Not my favourite drink but considering what had happened and could still happen it probably wasn’t a bad idea and I followed suit, taking two generous swallows before giving it back. It actually was good stuff; it burnt like fire on the way down and gave me a solid kick.

Johnny continued. “Anyway, occasionally things got out of hand. I mean, the Yanks were not adverse to opening fire if you did not heed their requests to heave to. You’ve to remember that it was not only the Caymanians but just about everybody else who owned a boat in the Antilles who was trying to get drugs to the States - the money was that good. You could make a year’s pay just doing one trip. Also, if you had a good load aboard some other smuggling gang would try and hi-jack it. If you weren’t fighting the cops, you fought each other. At times it was bloody mayhem.” He hesitated, and then said,” Hang on; I’ll be back in a moment.”

He disappeared into the cabin for a few minutes. He had left the bottle of rum so I took another swallow. He returned carrying a large reinforced green fibreglass box, about three feet by one foot by one foot. He placed it on the deck and opened the lid. I looked down to see the contents.

I couldn’t believe it. In green foam, there nestled a M72 LAW, a light anti-tank weapon, which is operated from the shoulder expelling a rocket-propelled grenade capable of penetrating eight inches of steel; it was still in pristine condition. You don’t find these babies just lying around. They are of American manufacture and they’re quite picky as to who gets to use them! This was a sophisticated piece of equipment. A Russian or Chinese 70mm RPG rocket launcher was primitive in comparison - the item I was looking at contained serious firepower.

“Jesus Christ!” I yelped.

He laughed. “You can say that again. You seem to have forgotten - I said that I would kill them. We’ve two of these. This’ll blow a hole through the cabin cruiser.”

Christopher lifted it out of its foam cocoon and placed the launch tube over his shoulder, flipping up the aiming device on top of the tube. He then squinted through the sight aiming at some imaginary target.

I was dumbstruck. “Where’d you get this?”

“Don’t ask. But, I need to tell you that the ‘Moby Dick’ was originally bought and brought to the Caymans to do nothing but smuggle coke and the likes. So, it’s highly likely that she could have something similar aboard,” he said warningly, also taking another swig.

This was a worry; suddenly I was visualizing a full-blown battle out here in the ocean.

He returned the weapon to its case and then got up to go back to the cabin.

“So, it’s important that we shoot before they do,” he said, his voice hard and unforgiving.

“What’s the range?” I asked.

“About two hundred yards at best.”

We knew that the ‘Moby Dick’ would have to come this way although it probably would be way out to sea by the time it got abeam of us. Where we were anchored we had the West End Point headland between Cotton Tree Bay and us and could not see the harbour on the radar screen, but the cruiser couldn’t leave the lagoon without us picking it up on radar no matter what course they chose.

John Senior gave the main cabin to the two women, the men sharing the fo’c’sle. He decided that the watch would be made up of two men, two on, and two off. I shared the first watch with Johnny.

Maria came out on deck carrying a thermos of coffee and two small aluminium cups. She sat on the bench next to me, poured me a cup of coffee, and handed it to me.

“Peter, you and I need to talk,” She said quietly.

I turned round to see if we were alone on the rear deck. The others were in the cabin; it was only John Senior who sat above on the flying bridge, too far away to overhear us.

I knew exactly what she wanted to talk about. Our relationship had reached what she thought was a critical stage - women don’t appreciate men leaving matters of the heart undecided. Over the last few days, we had revealed our innermost feelings and it was evident that she was well past the ‘sex for fun’ stage in our relationship and now believed it was time for more depth and commitment. My heart sank. I realized that I had made a few ill-timed statements. I could say that these were rash or ill conceived but that would be wrong - my timing had just been bad.

However, I didn’t think Maria’s timing was very good either, but I could not deny that my comments had implied a pledge of sorts.

“Yeah, you’re right; it’s probably time to talk,” I said realizing that she probably would read a degree of reluctance in my voice. I find things of the heart difficult to discuss especially when women set out to clinically dissect them. And I could see she now proposed to do just this. I tended to forget that it was more about the heart than the mind.

“What are we going to do?” she asked squeezing my arm affectionately. I could’ve given her a simple answer but doubted whether she would appreciate it at this stage.

“Well, we need to deal with Mr Trichardt first. We have to get him out of our lives once and for all. I think we were rash; we should never have taken his bloody money and diamonds. Sure, it was the perfect crime given the circumstances but now our lives are in danger - we’ve put ours and other lives in danger.”

“It’s going to be all right,” she whispered reassuringly.

“Okay, we seem to have found ourselves some assistance. Hell, at the moment, Christopher’s only desire is to kill both of them, not that you can blame him.”

“I accept that,” she said quietly. “But where does that leave us afterwards? Are you going home and I back to the States and then maybe we see each other in six month’s time again?”

I realized that this woman wanted an answer with a commitment - now!

I took her face in my hands.

“Look, sweetheart, I do love you, but to ask me where this will all lead to is not fair. For all I know, I could lose this fight. Why think about it now? Wait until it’s done. But what I will say now is that I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“And Francine?”

Now that was a problem I’d avoided thinking about, although every now and then my conscience would remind me that it was still there waiting to be dealt with. I certainly did not want to appear callous or unfeeling but no matter how I tackled this, which is what everyone involved would interpret it to be. I would probably alienate my staff. I could see my partner Gavin with his implied sanctimonious attitude giving me that silent ‘you are the biggest shit on the planet’ rundown.

“I don’t know how I’m going to handle this. She’s a beautiful and wonderful woman and has been very good to me. She’s going to think I used her, which is probably right. God, I am committed to you, but don’t rush me. Can you live with that?” I asked.

She looked me in the eyes. I thought she was making sure I was being sincere.

“Yes, I’ll wait but when this is over, I’m not just going back to the States to wait.”

I realized that if I didn’t do what she wanted, she was sufficiently resolute to walk away and forget me, even if it hurt.

She’d just get on with her life. I knew how tough she was.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

It was four in the morning. I was on the flying bridge keeping lookout. Johnny sat in the main cabin, periodically staring into the hooded radar console to check whether the ‘Moby Dick’ had appeared.

The sea had not yet shrugged off the last vestiges of the storm, and there was still a strong swell running. The wind had reverted to its usual easterly trades, fresh but pleasant. A few clouds moved across the night sky, the almost full moon sending shafts of moonlight stabbing through the broken cloud, its reflection rippling on the sea. A light flashed from West End Point headland warning ships of the hazard the peninsula represented.

Johnny had seen something on the radar screen and asked that I come down to the main cabin. I stared at the revolving beam on the oscilloscope. A bright, elongated blip emerged from the radar shadow of the headland. It had to be the ‘Moby Dick’. There were not that many big cruisers moored at Cayman Brac.

I started the engines. John Senior, who had been asleep on the bench in the cabin woke immediately, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and came over to me wanting to look at the scope.

“It’s the cruiser all right. She’s on the move. Get the anchor up,” he ordered. “Follow them, but keep a four to five mile distance - do it for a short while and see what happens. They’re bound to see us on their radar and no doubt will guess that it’s us.”

Johnny had joined us, along with Bess and Maria, all waiting their turn to stare at the scope.

Maria lifted her head from the console.

“What do you think they’re going to do?” she asked.

I shook my head; her guess was as good as mine.

“I don’t know, but if I was them I would wait until we are in international waters and then approach us,” I ventured. “Where do you think they’re heading?” I asked Johnny and his father.

John Senior rubbed his fingers over the stubble of his beard.

“It looks like Jamaica - probably Kingston.”

That certainly gave me something to reflect on. “Christ! I can’t go there, they don’t allow South Africans on the island - certainly not whites.”

Johnny chuckled. “I don’t think you need worry about that. Something tells me this will be over before we need worry where they are going. What I do think is that we don’t want to see Whittle again...” He tapped the console that housed the radarscope with his fingers. “Look at that, they’re already slowing. It seems that the moment we are in international waters they’ll make a move. They’re certainly not trying to get away from us.”

A quick glance at the revolving oscilloscope beam told me he was right. The ‘Moby Dick’ had not yet speeded up, and was doing no more than ten knots.

“Okay folks, if you want to wash or freshen up you’d better do it now,” the old man said.

The women were the first to use the cruiser’s head and small washing cubicle. Johnny senior disappeared into the engine room and emerged moments later carrying two rifles still in their rifle boots. He unbuckled the flap of one and withdrew the weapon. It was a Remington 30-06 hunting rifle but without a telescopic sight.

“We normally use these to go after shark which try and attack the hooked game fish. I mean that’s what everybody believes and this is true to an extent. However, acts of piracy still occasionally occur in the Caribbean, so we use these for protection as well. Cuba is just round the corner and occasionally you come across their gunboats.” John Senior laughed exposing his bare gums. “Of course, we don’t show them the weapons.”

He kept one rifle and handed the other to his son. He then produced one of the rocket launchers I had previously been shown.

“Peter, do you know how this works?” he asked me.

I nodded.

“Where to you learn how to handle it?” the old man asked, his eyebrows raised in surprise, not able to hide his curiosity.

“The Angolan war in South Africa. The American CIA had issued these to the UNITA rebels who were friends of South Africa. We both were fighting the MPLA and the Cubans.”

“All right - it’s all yours. Just don’t miss, we’ve only got this and one other, and with this swell running, the boat’s pitching like a bitch.” He looked towards the cruiser’s bow, which swung through an arc of six to eight feet every time the boat collided with a new wave. “Don’t fire until you’re sure. Remember, he probably has a Russian or Chinese RPG - there are quite a number of them around. You know what we’re expecting from you. I’m hoping he’ll want to shoot first and in his haste, and with the boat rolling as it is, he’ll miss.” he said with the scorn of someone who believes himself to be a sure winner.

Unfortunately, I didn’t share his sentiments and remained silent. What I did know was that our weapon was more powerful than any Russian RPG rocket launcher.

About an hour later, we were well beyond the twelve-mile limit and out of sight of land. John Senior’s prediction was correct - the ‘Moby Dick’ was now headed for Kingston, or so her current course indicated.

Maria waved me back into the cabin. She held the satellite instrument out to me. I thought I had heard it’s warbling sound.

“It’s Gavin,” she said. I took the phone.

“Peter, is that you?”

“”Yes, where are you?” I asked.

“Miami - but I’m ready to leave whenever you say so.”

“Just stay put. A great deal has happened here and some more is about to happen. What I need you to do is find somewhere in the Caribbean where South Africans are acceptable. We’re on a boat heading for Jamaica but I can’t land there with my South African passport. Once you’ve worked something out, please come back to me and tell me where you are heading.” I looked at John Senior who nodded his head. “Make sure the government accepts South African passport-holders. If so, the boat can drop me off there.”

“Okay, I’ll check around and get back to you. I see a hurricane passed through the Caymans. We got a whiff of it here. Are you guys okay?” Gavin asked.

“It was wild in more ways than one, but I’ll tell you about it later. How’s everybody?” I asked.

“Fine. Okay, I’ll check again with you later to-day.”

I thought Venezuela was the best and nearest place to head for. At least their government had not yet totally ostracized South Africa. Maybe Gavin would come up with something better, but I did not think so. The world hated South Africans.

Suddenly John Senior shouted.

“All right everybody - this is it! The ‘Moby Dick’ has changed course and is now running a track to intercept us. She probably wants to have a look-see. They’re about eight miles from us and have speeded up. They’ll be here within thirty minutes, if not less so you better prepare yourselves.”

I heard the anxiety in his voice and wondered whether Trichardt was aboard. Or had he flown out on his Learjet?

Fifteen minutes after we saw her turn slightly to intercept us, the ‘Moby Dick” appeared on the horizon. As she neared us, she veered away in order to put some distance between the two boats. I took the binoculars and climbed the steps to the flying bridge, and tried to focus the glasses onto the other boat. The flying bridge swung wildly from side to side as the cruiser rolled in the swells but I did manage to get a brief look at those standing on the deck. Carruthers and Trichardt stood next to each other, Trichardt with a pair of binoculars, staring at us.

The bastard! I thought. I had to restrain myself from giving him the “fuck you” sign. I felt the anger and hate physically well up inside me.

No doubt, he felt the same.

I saw that the two rifles we had were now being openly brandished on our deck. It was obvious that these could be seen from the ‘Moby Dick’. Cleary, John Senior wanted to send Carruthers a warning message - don’t come any nearer.

“Peter!” John Senior shouted. “Keep an eye on her. The moment you see a rocket launcher, shout!”

I noticed that the old man was trying to prevent the other boat from approaching us on a parallel course; instead, he tried to force it to either approach from the stern or bow in order that we presented a smaller and narrower target.

The two boats maintained a separating distance of about three hundred yards. Two shots rang out, the bullets whizzing past our boat, they yards off target, the roll of the craft just too much to enable them to fire with any degree of accuracy.

“It seems he’s getting ready to take another few shots at us. Peter, get down from there and take up position in the bow with that RPG launcher,” John Senior yelled, spinning the wheel to prevent a parallel approach by the ‘Moby Dick”.

I came smartly down the steps, sliding down the rails with my palms and shins. Johnny handed me the launcher and I scuttled around to the side of the cabin, which was hidden from the ‘Moby Dick’. I hunkered down in the bow trying to make myself inconspicuous behind the gunwales.

The forward windows of the cabin could swing upwards and John Senior opened one of these so that he could communicate with me. I felt the boat engines’ revolutions increase as he opened the throttles; this lifted the bow of the boat.

“Dad! Watch out! They’ve brought a RPG out onto the deck,” Johnny shouted to his father.

Again, John Senior spun the wheel; the cruiser keeled over towards the right as the old man took evasive action.

“Get ready!” he shouted to me.

I flipped the switch that activated the sighting mechanism, armed the launcher, and lifted my head and shoulders so that I could aim the launcher over the gunwale. I hefted it onto my shoulder trying to align the sight up with the other boat. The ‘Moby Dick’ approached from the front but at an angle, which slowly widened as the boats neared each other. The range was now about one hundred and fifty yards. The bridge on the ‘Moby Dick’ presented the biggest target. I battle to keep the cross hairs on the row of forward-facing storm windows in the superstructure.

I hoped that my hostile counterpart was unable to draw a bead on us, because he was on the rear deck of the ‘Moby Dick’ with its cabin still restricting his vision. I realized that was why their helmsman was angling away trying to get broadside, trying to give his man a shot.

For a second the launcher’s sight wavered over the target.

I pulled the trigger.

There was a loud whoosh and for a split second, acrid grey-black smoke enveloped me, which the wind immediately whipped away.

I heard John shout. “Fuck, it’s a miss.”

God, I watched its departing fiery tail in despair. It’s going to miss, I thought. Damn! But then it struck the bow about a foot from the foremost point, just catching the top of the gunwale. There was a flash and smoke, which immediately cleared.

The explosion had blown part of the upper bow away, shards of fibreglass, stanchions, and other debris scattering over the sea. I could see through the hull into the anchor locker; about ten feet of the hull side had disappeared but this was well above the waterline.

Their engines emerged unscathed, and the boat was moving across the sea at a good clip. As she drew abreast, I saw the man with the RPG and knew that he would fire within the next second or so. I actually saw the missile leave the launcher tube, spouting a four or five feet of flame. It streaked across the water trailing white smoke, impacting above the main cabin taking the flying bridge and outriggers with it. Pieces of pipe and stairs crashed to the deck, other pieces trailing alongside the boat still attached by cable, banging against the hull. Something had caught a light on the aft deck.

Rifle shots erupted, both Maria and Johnny firing at the cabin cruiser, which swung away trying to put some distance between us. Bess had a fire extinguisher in her hands and soon doused the small fire.

Johnny put down his rifle and started to cut the cables still attached to the pieces trailing in the water with cable-cutters while John Senior cursed, voicing his concern that the cables could snarl up in the propellers. Maria brought up the second rocket launcher and handed it to me.

“Remember, this is the last,” she said. I was amazed how this woman handled the fear and tension of the conflict now waging.

The ‘Moby Dick’ had drawn away, no doubt to lick her wounds as we were doing.

John Senior beckoned me into the cabin. I took position next to him where I could keep an eye on the other boat.

“You’ve got to make your next shot count,” he said tersely. I was offended; I felt he implied that my first shot was not so good. Christ! I wanted to say that he should try hitting the boat when it’s a hundred and fifty yards off and the deck is pitching wildly. He seemed to read my mind.

“I know that firing from this boat is not easy, but Peter... we’ve only got one more chance.”

Hell! Was it up to me again?

I knew he was right. This wasn’t about who could do it better - it was about not failing. We simply had to do it and they had chosen me to handle the launcher.

“Just know something,” I said. “If I’m going to hit that boat a fatal shot first and only time, you need to get me nearer.”

“There was nothing wrong with your shot,” John Senior said. Probably trying to mollify me, I thought. I had hit the boat but it was not fatal - the missing part of the bow was well above the waterline and insignificant. But neither had their shot done any noteworthy damage. The odds were still even, I thought.

“You know, I never worry about myself - just others, and in particular my children and grandchildren. But I promise, I’ll get you nearer,” he said, through a clenched jaw.

I took the binoculars from Johnny and studied the other boat. It had to be three to four hundred yards away. What was surprising was that while we had initiated the pursuit operation, it was they who had turned to attack us.

Their boat was nearly stationary. No doubt, they were making a careful inspection of the damage to the bow. I saw Carruthers and Trichardt on deck - they appeared to be having a heated discussion. Again, I could feel the anger and frustration that constantly simmered just below the surface.

It was unreal; in Angola, opportunity had presented us with a once in a lifetime chance to enrich ourselves beyond our wildest dreams. To crown it all, it hadn’t even been illegal! When does that ever happen? You could look at it anyway you liked; there was no doubt that we had stolen a fortune in money and diamonds, but this was only a moral transgression. At least, I was able to console myself with that thought, and the fact that Trichardt had no more right to this ill-gotten horde than I did. No matter how you looked at it, it had originally been stolen.

I knew this was blood money, even though neither Maria nor I had been directly involved in the human suffering associated with the amassing of it. The slave labour, worked from dawn to dusk, standing in the knee-deep water of the alluvial riverbeds in the northern provinces of Angola, they always at gunpoint. These slaves sifted gravel hour after hour with guards watching their every move. Those who complained or shirked their duties were summarily executed. Umpteen lives must have paid for these diamonds - these were truly blood diamonds. In Trichardt’s control, they would have been used to spill even more blood - used for the purchase of weapons.

Chapter Forty

For a while, both cruisers kept beyond rocket range of each other.

I knew that if we ran from this engagement, at some later stage, Trichardt would return to continue whatever he had set out to do. I could not run and hide indefinitely - there were too many things that required my attention in South Africa and I was not prepared to forfeit these interests. Anyway, he was not going to leave this unresolved; it wasn’t in his nature. Yes, he might decide to postpone his witch-hunt, but he would pursue us again merely to satisfy his desire for revenge. People of his stature and position don’t accept defeat from those they considered beneath them, especially when they felt they had been tricked and wronged. We would be marked, never sure when we would be fighting for our lives again.

The sun broke through the scattered cloud, the sea a patchwork of brightly lit areas, which revealed the true deep blue of the Caribbean Sea.

Somebody needed to make a suggestion, we couldn’t just wait; we had to do something.

“Johnny, why don’t we resume our course for Venezuela and see what they do?” I suggested.

He silently pondered my proposal, his mouth turned down.

“It’s worth a try,” He finally said, slowly opening the throttles so that the boat surged ahead until it was cruising at fifteen knots. Fortunately, all the controls in the cabin were still operative - it was only the flying bridge that had been wiped out. The grenade had exploded at least fifteen feet above the cabin leaving most of the cabin unscathed except for a few shrapnel holes, shattered plastic windows and a few black smoke and scorch marks.

I kept an eye on the ‘Moby Dick’. As I thought, she also increased her speed and took up position behind us following the same course.

I addressed my companions. “I’m afraid we’ve got company again. John, this boat’s both your and your father’s responsibility. What do you want us to do?” I asked.

His reply was immediate.

“After what’s happened, Carruthers will never leave us alone. It’s only a matter of time before he tries to kill both my father and me.” He stared at Christopher looking for approval and then spat vehemently. ”I say attack.”

”Bess and I agree. We’re God-fearing people but those men burnt down our hotel and like Johnny and his father, they will keep on trying to kill us,” Christopher said. Bess nodded her agreement.

I looked at the two men.

“You better go and tell the old man how you feel and see what he thinks. He may not agree. Tell him that Maria and I are behind you.”

Johnny spent five minutes in the cabin talking to John Senior and then returned to the rear deck.

“The old man wants to speak to you,” he said.

I entered the cabin and leant with my back against the instrument panel that stretched over three-quarters of the width of the cabin, the rounded contour nestling in the hollow of my lower back; I looked rearwards keeping an eye on the ‘Moby Dick’, which trailed us by about a mile.

John Senior waved a hand towards those on the rear deck.

“They spoke to me. It was dangerous and fighting talk but with little forethought,” he said, not taking his eyes off the sea.

I nodded. “You’re right, but my feelings are no different. Those bastards are not going to let us alone. They’ll go after you and your family and that goes for Christopher and Bess as well.”

The old man shook his head, obviously not sure what to do.

“Just look what this fuckin’ boat looks like. What am I going to say to Fergusson? Who is going to pay for this damage?” he asked.

“I’m sure that a guy in Fergusson’s position adequately insures his possessions, this boat included; it’s worth a mint. Remember, you never initiated the fight. We hired the boat from you. You were then attacked at sea. We retaliated, what else was there to do?” I replied and hoped I sounded convincing. “The attack was an act of piracy; the insurers would pay. I’m sure that the insurance policy still provides cover in the event of the boat being out on a charter. However, if not, I would be prepared to pay.”

John Senior guffawed but it was without mirth. “You’ve got to be kidding! Have you got that I kind of money?”

“I’m serious. In fact, I’ll pay you the standard charter fee if we survive this. That’ll make it legit and yes, I can afford to fix the boat, but I’d rather the insurance company does that,” I responded hoping this would convince him.

I again looked over the stern to check on the ‘Moby Dick’.

Shit!

She had increased speed.

Before he could speak, I interrupted him.

“John, forget this discussion, we’re about to get company,” I said.

He swivelled round to look. There was no missing the bone in the cruiser’s teeth as she sped towards us, their intentions obvious.

“Well, that gets me off the hook; I don’t have to make a decision now,” he said resignedly.

“Everybody, get ready! They’re coming!” I shouted.

John Senior spun the helm, the cruiser coming about, and her bow pointing towards the approaching boat. He increased our speed. The two boats had to be closing the distance at a combined speed of about fifty knots.

“Get your launcher ready. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to make a parallel pass keeping about three hundred yards between the boats. The moment I’m nearly directly abeam of them, I’m going to suddenly turn towards them, so it looks as if I intend to ram them.”

The man was wrong!

“John, that’s a mistake. I can’t fire with the bow jumping up and down like that. I nearly missed completely last time,” I protested.

“You’re not going to be in the bow. I want you on the rear deck just behind the cabin on the starboard side. I’m hoping he’ll fire when we are still racing directly towards him, bow on. The bastard will miss - I hope. The moment he has fired, I’m going to swing to port. That’s when you fire. Aim for the bottom of the superstructure where it meets the hull - maybe a foot lower than that, but you don’t want to go too low and accidentally hit the water. Have you got it?” he asked.

Christ, did I have a choice?

“Okay, I hear you. I’ll get ready.”

John Senior steered the boat slightly to port trying to keep us just out of their RPG rocket’s range. As we were about to draw abreast, he came sharply to starboard and pointed our bow directly at the ‘Moby Dick’.

Well, she did exactly what we had done, the boats closing rapidly, but there was one difference; I could see a man had hunkered down on his knee with the RPG over his shoulder, positioned on the deck directly in front of the cabin. The shattered bow gave him an unrestricted arc of fire. All he had to do was wait until we were in range.

“Everybody down,” John Senior screamed. We all threw ourselves flat on the deck.

I could not have been down on the deck on my stomach for a few seconds when the rocket flashed overhead, just missing the cabin, its tail spewing flame. It passed no more than a foot above the gunwale. Had we still had the flying bridge, it would have impacted with the stays or the outriggers, but miraculously, it never hit a thing and continued out to sea behind us.

“Now!” John yelled, the boat coming sharply to port. I rose to my knee, the launcher on my shoulder. Christ! The oncoming boat loomed large in front of me. I was an automaton, responding to pure reflexes. I couldn’t miss. I realized that the boat would pass very close across our stern and if they fired at that range into the back of the boat, it would be the end.

I pulled the trigger. The rocket left the tube and slammed into the “Moby Dick’s hull just behind the cabin about two feet above the water line. There was a tremendous explosion and a massive fireball swept over the boat. The pall of smoke and fire hung over the water behind. The engines had abruptly stopped, but the boat’s forward momentum took it past our stern, slowly, its speed gone.

We stared. The whole of the rear cabin had disappeared, as had half of the rear-deck. I couldn’t see any of the crew. There was a gaping hole in the hull about amidships, the sea pouring in. The centre of the boat was a roaring inferno, the flames fed by diesoline stored in the ruptured tanks.

A figure burst through the flames from the cabin and jumped overboard, his clothes on fire.

I swung round and shouted to John Senior. “Man in the water!”

There was no response, and we continued to move away at a fair speed. I dropped the launcher to the deck and stepped inside the cabin. John Senior was on his knees and slumped against the helm. Blood was pooling on the floor around his knees.

“Johnny,” I called, barely managing to keep my hysteria under control.

“Oh my God!” He rushed forward. Crouching down next to his father, he then took him into his arms and clasped the old man’s upper body to his chest.

There was nothing anybody could do. Either he had been shot or a piece of shrapnel had penetrated his neck, severing or nicking an artery. The blood had pumped from his body with every heartbeat, and this was now a large spreading pool of blood on the cabin floor. I knew that nobody could lose that amount of blood and live.

I stepped nearer and put my fingers on his neck to feel for a pulse. There was none.

“I’m sorry.” I placed my hand on Johnny’s shoulder then reached across and pulled the throttles right back, the gearbox automatically slipping into idle, the cruiser losing its forward momentum, beginning to wallow in the swells.

Bess, Maria and Christopher entered the cabin, nobody saying a word. John was still holding his father. Tears rolled down his cheek.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered again. I turned and walked back to the rear deck.

I looked back at the ‘Moby Dick’. Already her stern was nearly submerged. She was surrounded by floating debris. It was then that I saw a head bobbing in the water and an arm waving.

I walked back into the cabin and took the helm. The others had taken John’s body and laid it down on the cabin bench. I inched the throttles forward and steered us back to the other boat.

‘Moby Dick’s stern had already completely disappeared under water and it was just the bow that pointed at an angle towards the sky. She was about to go. Within minutes, with an eruption of air she slid stern first beneath the waves leaving a legacy of flotsam and diesoline that still burned.

We slowly came alongside the swimmer and Christopher, with the assistance of the two women, hoisted him aboard.

It was Trichardt.

He had lost all his hair, singed off in the flames. He had burns to his face and arms. His clothes were scorched and burnt off in places, revealing further burns to his body. He also had a serious gash just below the knee on the left leg, seeping blood, the white bone visibly broken. The man was in a bad way, in severe pain and going into shock.

I looked out again over the area where the boat had sunk. Two other bodies floated face down in the water. I continued to scour the area for another few minutes. There were no other survivors.

Eventually I returned to the two bodies to pick them up.

“Don’t.”

I turned to see Maria behind me.

“What do you mean - don’t?” I asked.

“The bodies - leave them. They’re dead. There’s nothing you can do. Their boat has sunk; don’t pick anything up. This has to look like an attack by pirates. We neither captured nor killed anybody. We must leave this scene as soon as possible and continue onto Venezuela. We’ll clean the boat and where possible, remove all traces of the battle. If we are questioned, which I doubt, we say that we lost our flying bridge and outriggers in the storm and that it nearly sunk us. The authorities will know of the near hurricane that passed through the Caribbean and the Gulf. Please Peter, you now have to leave the rest to me, - I know exactly what to do.”

It began to dawn on me what plan she had in mind.

“What about Johnny’s father,” I asked with a croak in my voice.

“We’ve got to give him a burial at sea.” There was no mistaking the determination in her voice. “I know how to handle this. I’ll speak to Johnny.”

“We have to pick up those bodies,” I said again.

“No we don’t - leave them.”

“What about the US Coast Guard, they’ll find the debris and bodies. Their aircraft continually patrol this area looking for cocaine and heroin smugglers.” I insisted.

She shook her head. “This is the Caribbean - the sharks will get them long before they arrive.”

“Christ, that’s fuckin’ callous,” I retorted.

“If we want to get out of this in one piece, not go to jail, and keep the money, then that’s what we have to do. We are fortunate that it happened out here and that none of the lives lost were US citizens; had they been, or had this happened in US waters, it would be all over for us. They’d make sure they got to the bottom of it all. But when not in their jurisdiction, they’re not quite as thorough. Still, there are things we have to do,” she said coldly.

“And Trichardt? How do we explain him?” I asked my voice subdued because I already knew her answer.

“I’m sorry,” she said and slowly shook her head.

What was she telling me?

The shock of it all actually made me feel ill. She was talking about calculated, cold-blooded murder! All along, I knew that this woman had a vicious and uncompromising side to her. You could not get a job like the one she had with the CIA without these attributes: the ability to plan and carry out assassinations were part of their duties against those who were enemies of the state. It must be easy to cross the line, I thought. You needed to be cruel and indurate and be able to kill without conscience. Clearly, she could do all this.

But I still loved this woman. God Almighty! What was I to do? I resolved not to let her do this.

“I’ll go along with leaving the bodies but you don’t touch Trichardt! We’re not going to act like animals - do you hear me?” I said my voice close to a shout, loud enough to make the others turn and look at me. Maria walked away, ignoring me.

I went to inspect Trichardt. Somebody had put shiny gel-like ointment over his burns and placed pieces of gauze over these. They had also covered him with a blanket.

He was unconscious.

“I gave him a morphine injection,” Bess said behind me. “I found the first aid kit.”

“Thanks.” I returned to the helm easing the throttles forward and pointing our bow west towards Venezuela.

John Senior’s body was on the other bench covered by a blanket.

Chapter Forty-One

Christopher, Johnny, and I decided to split the watch between ourselves, and I chose the graveyard watch. We were all exhausted. The supplies on board were meagre, but Bess managed to rustle-up a reasonable supper of tinned meats and vegetables with stale bread, washed down with copious amounts of tea.

We found that about fifteen knots was the most comfortable speed, the pounding of the hull on the waves barely felt.

It was already light, the sun about to rise over the horizon when Bess came up behind me at the helm.

“He’s dead.”

I knew she meant Trichardt.

“Christ! I can’t believe he died - it never looked like his life was threatened.” I was surprised. Certainly, I knew that he had serious burns to his limbs, face, and body but I did not believe them to be so bad as to cause his death.

“Peter, you’ve got remember that he was in shock. The damage to the body, especially in the case of burn wounds, is tremendous, the shock huge. This is usually the cause of death,” she said with a pained expression.

“Where do you know this from?” I asked.

”I was a nurse.”

That surprised me.

Actually, I should’ve felt nothing for the man, but for some reason, a feeling of guilt overcame me. I was not quite prepared to accept that he had died. Maria’s last discussion with me when she indicated that Trichardt could not be permitted to survive, bothered me. Fleetingly, I imagined her in the middle of the night, creeping up to the drugged Trichardt on his bunk and surreptitiously administering some lethal injection. As I said, the thought was only a fleeting one, but the mere fact that I considered this indicated that I would not have put such a deed beyond her.

Maria spoke to Johnny and had explained the possible consequences if we were to arrive in Venezuela with the bodies of Trichardt and his father aboard. Johnny’s father was a victim of the recent storm, she said. He had been washed overboard when we were struck by a rogue wave. She convinced him that we had to say that the body was never found. For this reason, we had to bury him at sea.

And we would have to deal with Trichardt’s body in a similar manner.

She clearly had been very convincing, and Johnny accepted that she was right. He wrapped his father’s body in an emergency sail together with a few unessential metal items he found in the engine room, using them to weigh the body down. He did the same with Trichardt’s body, with Maria helping him, neither of them displaying quite the same degree of respect to him as they had allotted to Johnny’s father.

With the bodies lying on the bench on the rear deck, Johnny said a prayer over his father. He and Christopher then gently lowered the body into the water. It immediately sank.

Trichardt was rolled overboard. Interestingly, everyone had also said another short prayer.

I waited ten minutes before I started the engines and resumed our voyage. Shortly thereafter, I gave the helm to Johnny, as he wanted to be alone with his thoughts and I crawled into a bunk.

I awoke an hour or so after midday. Maria handed me a cup of tea. With the cup in my hand, I joined Johnny at the helm. He seemed to have recovered from the ordeal of the burial and had come to terms with the loss of his father.

“An hour or two ago, a US navy patrol aircraft flew over us,” he said.

“Do you think it was a routine patrol?” I asked.

“It could have been or maybe it was searching for the ‘Moby Dick’. I don’t think it was looking for us because nobody really knew of our departure and therefore, wouldn’t report us missing. When they flew over us, we did not warrant a look-see, they just ignored us. I’m sure there is a search and rescue out, although I’ve no idea who would have alerted the authorities. Maybe someone in the Caymans.”

“Christ, I think the crap is about to hit the fan. Make sure everybody’s got their stories down pat. You know, the rogue wave tearing off the flying bridge structure, the debris still attached to the boat by the cables and the boat unable to properly right itself, forcing us to remain stationary in the water and us unable to search for those washed overboard until we had cut the boat free,” I rattled off frantically. “You then discovering that Bess and I had also been washed overboard and you then rescuing us - has everyone got that straight?”

Without taking his eyes off the horizon, Johnny spoke. “God, Peter, I still can’t believe the events of the last few days. Maria was right. What we did was the only way to deal with it. If asked, we don’t know a damn thing about the ‘Moby Dick’. Why are you aboard? Because you and Maria wanted to be taken to Venezuela. As far as Bess and Christopher are concerned, they are close island friends of mine. Of course, bloody Whittle will never believe that story, but what can he do? Hopefully, the loss of life attributed to the ‘Moby Dick’ and its loss at sea will be accepted. I know that Whittle will be sceptical, but I’ve the feeling he won’t make too much of it. Victims of the storm, that’s what. He’ll consider it a favour from above; Carruthers no longer being a problem for him.”

“I’m truly sorry about your old man,” I said placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Thanks.” That was all he said.

I sat on the bench on the open deck with Maria next to me, her head on my shoulder.

“It’s all working out,” she said.

“Yes,” I replied quietly. She was right, although I was still concerned that our explanations would not satisfy the authorities.

“Can you imagine the headlines. ‘South African business tycoon disappears in the Caribbean’ or something to that effect. I’m sure his organisation would send people out to investigate and what about his jet on the airport at Cayman Brac? Is the pilot still waiting there? The police will have to initiate a search. There are still a lot of unanswered questions. Fortunately, there is no proof. Although we do know that Whittle has a fair idea of what has been going on.”

She pondered my reply for a while.

“What happened to Johnny’s father is tragic and so is the loss of the hotel,” Maria said. “We need to discuss this with Gavin and maybe think about some sort of compensation. Christ, we’ve got enough money now.”

I agreed. Just thinking about Gavin brought Francine to mind. It was like a shock - I knew I had to deal with that and for the life of me I had no idea how I would broach the subject. Subtlety had never been a virtue of mine and when it came to matters of the heart...well, things had gone badly wrong in the past.

A few years back, I’d been romantically involved with two women at the same time, then also too afraid to break off one of the relationships, frightened of the reaction that would result, or worse, maybe losing both in the process. It had truly been a messy business, and guess what? I lost them both in the end anyway.

“I think I’m going to leave the States and live in South Africa. In fact, I’m going to resign immediately we get back. After all, I’m your fiancée. What do you think?” She smiled.

What did I think? I should have been elated, but I wasn’t. I cringed at the thought of Francine hearing that in the past days that we had been separated, Maria had unofficially become my fiancée.

It was a total fuck up, and I hadn’t even spoken to Francine yet! Selling my share in the business followed by emigration was a possible option.

“A fantastic idea,” I responded weakly. “But first sort your things out in the States so you don’t have to go back and tie up any loose ends,” I suggested, hoping that it would give me sufficient time to sort my love life out. God, everybody would consider me a despicable bastard if I broke off with Francine for another woman.

Our discussion was interrupted by the harsh noise of the satellite phone. I answered.

Gavin and I greeted one another.

“Gavin, listen, a lot has happened. I can’t say anymore other than that our problem - you know what I’m referring to - has been so-to-say resolved. Don’t ask any questions... please! We’re a day away from Maraciabo, in Venezuela. Please leave from wherever you are as soon as possible, Maria and I need to be picked up. We are on a cabin cruiser, the ‘Dream Island’. You’ll find us in the La Nautico yacht basin.”

He wanted to give the phone to Francine who was shouting that she wanted to speak to me. I begged off, saying it was not a good idea to be using the satellite phone now, there a risk of eavesdroppers. He seemed to understand.

The next day we docked in Venezuela in the small boat harbour of Maraciabo, where a huge flotilla of yachts was moored. Venezuela’s oil drew a large contingent of Americans and most of the boats belonged to Americans who worked in the country for the large petroleum corporations. More English was spoken in the yacht club than Spanish was!

We moored to the main jetty, the property of the yacht club. The club managed and controlled all access to the jetty. Hardly had we tied up, when we were approached by an immigration official accompanied by two members of the local carbinieri. The officer spoke fair English. He requested our passports and gave us each a form to complete. Only Maria and I had passports. I explained to the immigration officer that we had run into a storm while out of Cayman Brac, that the boat had been damaged, and that we were forced to proceed west in order to ride out the storm.

” Maraciabo was the nearest safe harbour,” I said trying to sound convincing.

“Yes, I know about the storm. It affected most islands. There was even a hurricane warning. A few other sailing yachts were also caught up in it,” he said sympathetically. He gesticulated at Maria and I. “You two can enter, but the others must stay here and not leave the confines of the yacht harbour. Please, the carbinieri will be watching. When will you be leaving again?”

I told him that we were waiting for an executive jet to collect us, which we expected to arrive at Maraciabo Airport today. The mention of an executive jet seemed to impress him. I also said that the yacht had suffered some damage, and that we thought we might have to have it repaired here, as there was no such repair facility on Cayman Brac. He referred me to Eduardo’s Chandlers and Boat Locker, pointing out the sign on the other side of the basin. There I could see a number of yachts, which were undergoing repairs and refurbishment.

He produced a rubber stamp and with a flourish stamped both my and Maria’s passports permitting us to stay in the country for ten days.

It had been a lot easier than I thought. I did not report John Senior’s death. We had discussed this and John was adamant that it be left to him to report his father’s death on his return to Cayman Brac.

We all needed a wash, new clothing and a solid meal, in that order. The yacht harbour had a number of small stalls and shops, which sold those items yachtsmen would generally be looking for. I paid for clean clothes, towels and toiletries, then entered the club and asked permission to use their ablution facilities. This was granted on payment of a small fee.

An hour later, we all met in front of the restaurant, our appearance that of a happy crew, glad to be on land after a long sea voyage.

Everyone was starving and we literally ate our way through the menu - starters, fish, and steaks, bottles of wine and mineral water.

We had not finished our main course when I saw Gavin enter the restaurant with his wife and Francine in tow.

There were smiles, kisses and hugs all round as everybody was introduced. Francine swept into my arms and gave me a long lingering kiss. I had to respond so as not to start the reunion off on the wrong foot, but I could feel Maria’s eyes locked on my back as she took it all in.

The three of them had not yet eaten and joined us at the table. Francine found a chair and forced Maria to shift up a place so that she could squeeze in between us, as if she rightly belonged there. Gavin sat next to me on the other side.

Fortunately, the table was not in close proximity to other diners and we were able to speak with little chance of being overheard provided we kept our voices down.

After some small talk, I began to relate the events, which had occurred since I had last seen them. What amazed me was that Gavin showed little surprise at Trichardt’s attempts to get at us.

“You know Peter; I have to say that we got off lightly. Had we stayed any longer in South Africa and left the matter unresolved, I believe Trichardt would have run out of patience and things would have gone badly wrong. At least the vendetta has ended.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I believe no-one else knows about the diamonds. I think Trichardt mostly kept this to himself and any ideas of seeking revenge disappeared with him and his merry men. Nobody will disbelieve Johnny’s story - after all, the man washed overboard was his father. Be happy! We’re wealthy men!”

Gavin smiled and raised his glass. “Here’s to us. And, especially to you. What do they say? You’re a friend indeed.”

I suddenly noticed that Maria’s chair was empty.

“Where’s Maria?” I asked Francine.

“I don’t know. She wasn’t very talkative; maybe she wasn’t feeling well - you’ve had quite an ordeal. I asked if she was feeling all right. She said it was the after-shock, you know, everything that has happened during the last few days finally got to her. She said she just wanted to rest,” Francine said quietly.

Just wanted to rest? I knew that had to be bullshit. Rest where? Onboard the cruiser? Never! Something was up. I started to get up from the table.

“Where are you going?” Gavin asked.

“I’m just going to find Maria.”

He tut-tutted. “Just sit down - let somebody else go. She’s got to be around somewhere.” He turned to his wife and asked her to find Maria. “Probably gone to powder her nose,” he laughed.

I told Gavin that Maria and I had discussed compensating Johnny and the Campbell’s for their losses and the trouble they had been through for us. He was in total agreement and said that I should just give him a sum that I thought would be fair.

Trudy, Gavin’s wife, returned and said she had been unable to find Maria, despite looking everywhere. Francine was watching me intently, so I decided to wait.

Another half hour passed and still there was no sign of Maria. I was now concerned. My imagination kicked into gear, my mind full of the craziest ideas as to what might have happened to her. Fortunately, everybody then got up from the table, and Johnny and I walked off to find Maria.

I strolled over to the reception desk in the restaurant to settle the bill with my credit card. The manager called me aside.

“Senor. Are you Peter van Onselen?”

“Si?”

He handed me an envelope.

“Senor, the lady who was at your table asked that I give it to you, but said that I was to wait until you had finished lunch.”

“Thank you,” I said and stuck the envelope into my pocket. I gave him a ten-dollar note not realising that this was extremely generous by Venezuelan standards.

“What was that about?” Francine asked.

“Nothing, just a few brochures showing what this club has to offer to those yachtsmen who sleep over,” I lied.

My explanation appeared to mollify her. Of, course I realized that the envelope had to be from Maria. I had a premonition that something was amiss, which left me with a feeling of dread and foreboding. I desperately wanted to read the letter.

“Come on Peter. Let’s go back to our hotel. I’m sure Maria will eventually arrive. She knows where it is,” Gavin said.

Gavin had booked into the Hyatt Maracaibo Hotel the night before. The club concierge called a cab; we all piled in and drove off to the hotel leaving those without passports at the yacht club.

On arrival I convinced Francine to go to the room and that I would follow later, as I wanted to first kit myself out with clothes and shoes. At first, she was reluctant to leave me but eventually agreed, and we parted in the foyer. I promised to come up within an hour.

As soon as she had disappeared into the elevator, I walked to the lounge, sat down at a table in a quiet corner, and pulled the envelope from my pocket.

Dearest Peter,

Words cannot express the love I feel for you. You awakened in me a fire that I have never felt before. Not to be with you is an agony I can hardly bear.

I see in you a man of compassion and understanding; you are ambitious and brave but also very aware of your own weaknesses and shortcomings. You are any woman’s dream, and so easy to manipulate because you love women so much!

Until we met up with Francine today, I did not doubt our commitment to one another: after all, you had said that I was your fiancée.

That was beautiful.

I never pressed you - you just suddenly came out with it. It is a moment I will cherish forever.

That short while that I spent in the restaurant next to Francine and you made me acutely aware of a number of things I had not previously realized.

Francine is deeply in love with you. She is also the opposite of me. She was born to be a loving wife, to mother a horde of children (I think you would be a great father), run an efficient household. In fact, I believe her to be the ideal person to look after you and your family.

She’d also forgive you your indiscretions.

I don’t think I could fill that role. I’m not the mothering type, nor do I aspire to be the exemplary wife. I think the things I do for a living and my country have impacted severely on my life, and if we were to share our lives, I’m sure there would come a time when you would seriously question the wisdom of our union.

Also, I know you: you will be indiscreet and I would never forgive you.

Maybe I’m a coward when it comes to love but I also don’t believe it would last. I don’t think you deserve that. So, this is adieu.

I am truly sorry.

On the upside, we are now millionaires many times over. I will transfer $200,000 into your account here in the Caymans, this being my contribution to Bess, Christopher, and John. I leave to you as to how best these funds should be distributed.

Marry Francine, she’ll be good to you- she certainly loves you.

Ever loving

Maria

I felt numb with devastation. Something I deeply cherished had been wrenched from me. I did not know how to get hold of her and I probably wouldn’t find her anyway: she was a past master at disappearing.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” the waiter asked.

“Yes, a double Black Label on the rocks.”

After an hour and a half and five doubles, I finally got over the worst of the shock. In fact, I was drunk.

“For Chrissake, what are you doing here? God, you’re pissed out of your mind!” I heard Gavin’s voice and looked up to see him staring down at me.

I feebly grinned at him, withdrew the letter from my pocket, and handed it to him. He smoothed it out on the table and then read it. You have to realize that he was my one true friend even though at times he procrastinated and sometimes put an impenetrable wall around himself, which drove me insane. A true puritan at heart, religious and always concerned for the well-being of others: although if you put it to him that he was a do-gooder, he’d emphatically deny this.

He read the letter in silence, his face expressionless. Then he slowly folded it and handed it back to me.

He looked at me, his voice barely above a whisper. I could hear that he felt my hurt.

“I’m truly sorry; Peter and I feel for you. But to be honest, I’m both sorry and glad.”

God, I thought, he’s being an asshole again. He’s glad! I felt my anger rise and I spluttered. “Fuck you, Gavin.”

“Stop and listen!” he hissed. “Let me finish, don’t start acting like a drunken sod.” He hesitated for a second. “I agree with her - isn’t that strange? As beautiful as she is, I mean, she can stoke any man’s fire, I really don’t believe she was ever intended for you. I honestly believe that ultimately you both would’ve ended up being unhappy. She’s right, you know, Francine loves you. I mean, we’ve spent days with her and we know. This is the best thing. Peter, what you have to remember is this, that she knew it even if you didn’t.”

Being as drunk as I was, his words were sufficient to bring tears to my eyes, and they rolled down my cheeks. Whether this was indeed sorrow or merely self-pity brought on by the scotch, I’ll never know.

I was a mess.

Gavin smiled. “Come on friend, let me select some clothes. Francine told me that was what you had gone to do.”

Led by Gavin, I staggered out of the hotel.

Chapter Forty-Two

Edward Street in George Town on Grand Cayman is the business centre of the Cayman banking world. It is also the address of a few revered firms of attorneys and barristers. Doolittle, Morris, and James were one of them. Their chambers took up two floors of an impressive two-storey building, built when Britain’s empire was at its peak.

That this was so was evident in the interior design and décor of the building. The woodwork and floors were the best of British oak, as were the furnishings, covered in dark red leather.

Johnny Campbell was uncomfortable in his suit. The day was hot and he was perspiring, but he hoped it did not show. He hesitantly approached the reception desk, where a young black woman smiled up at him.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Unsure of himself, he handed her the letter in his hand. She perused it.

“You are here to see Mr. James? We are expecting you. You are a few minutes late,” she chided him, “but not to worry, it’s only a few minutes. Please follow me.”

She led him into what he thought to be a conference room, with a long table surrounded by cushioned ornate chairs similar to those found in a dining room. Heavy damask curtains framed the large small-paned wooden windows, the sun streaming in. An elderly man in a dark suit with half frame glasses sat at the head of the table surrounded by papers. Johnny was surprised to see both Christopher and Bess seated at the table, Bess looking prim in a floral dress with a handbag and a ridiculous hat perched on her head. Christopher, like him, was dressed in a dark suit, looking just as uncomfortable.

The old man smiled genially.

“Ah, Mr John Campbell, at last. Let me start again, now that we are all gathered. I am Robert James and I’ve been appointed to act as a correspondent on behalf of Singh, Shapiro and du Toit, a group of attorneys who were appointed as trustees in the estate of late Peter Gueshoo.”

The old man looked up from his papers.

“Do you know him?”

“Never heard of him”, said Johnny without hesitation.

“Neither have we. Are you sure you looking for us?” asked Christopher.

The elderly man harrumphed, not happy at the insinuation that he could be dealing with the wrong people.

He read off the names, which included that of John Senior and asked the three to confirm these.

“There’s no doubt you are the correct people,” Mr James said. “Now let’s get down to it. I’ll read that part of the will that relates to you.”

“This is a will from somebody? Where?” Christopher asked equally surprised.

“South Africa,” the attorney replied.

The three Caymanians could not believe what they were hearing. An amount of $150,000 had been bequeathed to each of them. Johnny was to receive $300,000; this included the $150,000 that his father would have received but which was now his. Furthermore, the attorney said to Johnny that, should he be willing to undergo surgery to correct his crippled leg in the United States, all expenses in this respect would be borne by the estate of the late Peter Gueshoo, and all requests for payment in this regard were to be served on the offices of Doolittle, Morris, and James.

The lawyer obtained their signatures to various documents and then handed them each a rather impressive looking cheque, beautifully handwritten by somebody who knew calligraphy, drawn on a Caymanian Bank. The drawer account was the trust account of Doolittle, Morris and James. Two impressive signatures appeared below the firm’s name. He then led them to the door, smiled and shook their hands.

“Incidentally, I am sorry to ask but I am curious. What was this Mr Peter Gueshoo to you? The name appears to be Chinese, so it seems unlikely that he was a relative,” he asked.

They looked at each other and then Bess spoke.

“Sir, I guess he is what the name implies; he’s Gueshoo.”

1 That was a right fuckup