She appeared immediately, her face white. She opened the window. She swung her leg over the sill, then the other, clutching the bag. For a moment she sat, then she jumped.
She hit the grass, her knees bent, and she rolled. She scrambled up and ran into the darkness of the trees. Morgan grabbed her hand.
He leant against the wall, and laced his hands together. She put her foot into his hands, and she sprang. She clambered up on top of the wall; then she disappeared. Morgan jumped, and grabbed the top. He swung his leg up, and rolled over.
‘Walk naturally.’
He gripped her hand. It was clammy. She walked erect, her heart pounding, looking to neither left nor right. Ahead were the palms of the beach.
‘Now run!’
They ran through the dark palms. They came out onto the beach, panting. Out there was the unlit shape of the Kingfisher. They ran along the beach, to the dinghy. Morgan grabbed the painter and went splashing out into the sea.
‘Jump in.’
She splashed out to it, and clambered in. He climbed aboard, snatched up the oars and started to row.
She clambered shakily aboard the launch. Big King glowered at her from his horizontal position, bulging-eyed.
Morgan hurried to the wheel and started the engines. His hands were trembly. Then he clambered up to the bows. He heaved up the anchor, hand over hand. He lashed it down then came scrambling back to the wheelhouse. He put the engines into gear and opened the throttles. The boat eased forward, doem – doem – doem.
‘Take the wheel.’
She took it. Her face was gaunt in the glow of the instrument panel. Morgan snatched up a chart, and looked at it. Then grabbed the parallel rulers. He marked off a course for Venezuela.
‘Three-zero-five.’
He took back the helm and swung the boat onto the course. Then gave the helm back to her.
He looked behind, at the land. His mouth was dry.
There was not a sign of movement. He sighed out. They had made it . . . For a moment he felt euphoric. He turned and went back to Big King.
He squatted beside him. ‘Now, Mr King, are we going to be friends?’
Big King gargled into his gag and rolled his eye at him.
Morgan said: ‘That’s Mrs Smithers. She doesn’t like bad language. Or bloodshed. Now, I’m going to untie you, Mr King. But you must be polite.’
Big King looked at him murderously and growled something through his stars and stripes.
‘Or do I leave you tied up, Mr King?’
Big King groaned and closed his eyes.
‘Okay,’ Morgan said. ‘But first I must find your gun.’
He clambered down the hatch to the accommodation. He started in the obvious places.
Five minutes later he had found an FN rifle and a 12 bore shotgun, and the ammunition. He locked the guns in the forward cabin. He took the ammunition with him, up to the helm. He said to Anna:
‘Untie his hands. Let him untie his own feet.’
Anna went to Big King. She knelt and wrestled the knot undone. She stood up, and came back to Morgan.
Big King wrestled his hands free. He sat up with a groan, flexing his hands. Then his big fingers wrestled loose the knot of his gag. He spat out the stars and stripes. He sat there, flexing his jaw.
‘You sonofabitch …’
Morgan picked up Anna’s bag and placed it at Big King’s feet. ‘Search it. For drugs.’
Big King scowled: then rummaged through the bag. He shoved it aside. ‘So what? I can’t look in the other place, can I?’ He started untying his feet.
‘Where?’ Anna demanded.
Big King suddenly looked embarrassed. ‘Ask your boyfriend,’ he muttered. He untied his feet, grunting. He sat there, massaging his big ankles.
Morgan said, ‘Get him a drink. What have you got, Mr King?’
‘Rum,’ Big King growled. ‘Straight,’ he added.
‘And the same for us,’ Morgan said. ‘And now will you please take the helm, Mr King?’
‘And will you please please please for Christ’s sake quit calling me Mr King?’
He lumbered over to the helm and snatched it. He looked at the compass, then looked at the receding shore lights. ‘Hey! – we’re going the wrong way for Saint Vincent’s!’
‘We’re going to Venezuela, Mr King.’
Big King stared at him. He whispered:
‘You’re gonna load this ship up with cocaine and run it back up the islands to Miami … You’re going to kill me and use my ship for one drug run?’
‘If I was going to kill you, why did I untie you?’
Big King glared. ‘What happens when we get to Venezuela?’
‘Mrs Smithers and I get off. You do what you like.’
Big King said slowly:
‘Pirates, Mister Smithers …’ He pointed west with a fat, gnarled finger. ‘Those waters are full of pirates! They board you, they murder you, they steal your boat, use it for one drug run up to Miami, then sink the boat to destroy the goddam evidence! Then start again …’
‘Mr King, I am the pirate, remember.’
Anna came up the hatch, with three glasses of dark rum. She put one in front of Big King. Morgan turned, and sat down at the dining table behind him. Anna slumped down beside him. She looked aft at the sea. Morgan said: ‘Nothing’s following us.’
He dragged his hands down his face. They were still trembly.
Anna took a mouthful of rum, threw back her head, and swallowed. It burned down into her gut, and she shuddered.
She took his hand, and squeezed it hard.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
They saw only some distant fishing craft all night. Before dawn the Kingfisher dropped anchor two hundred yards off the black, jungled coast of Venezuela.
It was humid, oily hot. A mile away the lights of Garrucha twinkled. Anna climbed down into the dinghy. Big King followed. Morgan climbed in, untied the painter and shoved off. Big King took up the oars and started rowing.
The dinghy crunched onto the beach and Morgan and Anna climbed out.
‘Well,’ Morgan said, ‘many thanks, Mr King.’
‘Oh, a pleasure,’ Big King glowered, ‘an absolute pleasure. Any time.’
‘I’ll send you a cheque for a thousand dollars to cover expenses and to compensate for the loss of your charter party. Care of the Heron Bar. I’m afraid I need all the cash I’ve got right now.’
‘Oh, sure. Send me a Get Well card, too.’
‘Goodbye, Mr King,’ Anna said, ‘and thank you.’
‘Oh sure,’ Big King said. ‘And will you do something for me?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t call me, I’ll call