Crackdown

by Bernard Cornwell

  We piled the last of the flowers on the new dry mound of sandy soil. John Maggovertski, who hardly knew Thessy, had sent a wreath, but nothing had come from Matthew McIllvanney, and, more surprisingly, nothing from the owners of Cutwater Charters. McIllvanney had cursed me when I told him of the boat’s loss, then he had gone to fight his battles with the insurers. I had been told that Wavebreaker was being salvaged and she would probably soon be back at her dockside, but I would not sail on her again, and neither would Ellen for McIllvanney had fired her. He did not actually have the power to fire me, but he hardly needed to, for I had lost any chance of a job when Wavebreaker sank. Instead of flowers, McIllvanney had sent a message demanding that I visit his office to sign the necessary forms for the loss adjuster and salvage company. I had thrown the message away.

  When the funeral was over and the mourners were making their slow way back to Bonefish’s house where the singing would go on all day, Ellen gently steered me in the opposite direction. “I just want to talk with you,” she said. I had not seen Ellen since the morning we had been rescued from Wavebreaker, after which I had become entangled with the police. As soon as the police had reluctantly released me, I had come straight to see Bonefish, and thus Ellen and I had not seen each other until today when she and Jackson Chatterton had arrived on the morning ferry. When she had first disembarked I had not recognised her for she was wearing a dress. The dress was a very dark wine-red colour with a long full skirt and it made her look oddly unfamiliar and wondrously beautiful.

  If Ellen wanted to talk to me in private she was to be disappointed. Jackson Chatterton, suspecting we wanted to be alone, had the tact to walk away, but Ellen and I had hardly been ten seconds together before we were waylaid by Denise Harriman. The senator’s aide had been joined by a tall, short-haired man who had not been in the church, and whom I had not spotted at the graveside. He was in his early middle-age and had a tanned hatchet face with gunfighter eyes. “This is Warren Smedley,” Denise Harriman introduced us, “Mr Smedley is an agent of the Drug Enforcement Administration in Washington DC.”

  Smedley nodded, but did not offer to shake hands. There was something very sharklike in the economy of his movements and in his silence. He was wearing a dark blue suit, a starched white shirt and a sober grey tie.

  “The senator asked Mr Smedley to talk with you,” Denise Harriman explained the agent’s presence, then paused as though to let Smedley speak, but the DEA agent just stared out across the long shoaling lines of foam that ran white and ragged from north to east. We had all stopped at the shoreline and were standing in awkward proximity. Ellen, her eyes red from too much crying, took my hand and pulled me a pace backwards.

  “Did you know that Robin-Anne telephoned her father’s office?” Denise Harriman suddenly asked me, as though to break the embarrassing silence.

  “No,” I said. “Did she want him to rescue her?”

  “The very opposite. She called to say that she and her brother are entirely safe and happy, but are not coming home.” Denise Harriman took a pair of sunglasses from her handbag. “She refused to tell us where they were hiding. They’re very stupid children.”

  “It was all planned,” I said tiredly.

  “We imagine so, yes.” Denise Harriman did not sound very interested, or perhaps she was just nervous of the silent and glowering Warren Smedley who was listening to our conversation but contributing nothing towards it.

  “I think Rickie only suggested the cruise-cure so he could get his passport back and join his drug friends,” I said. “He fooled us all, didn’t he?”

  “Especially the senator,” Denise Harriman said very tartly, as though any inconvenience that the rest of us might have experienced as a result of Rickie’s machinations were as nothing compared to the senator’s sufferings. “Senator Crowninshield personally put up the half-million dollars cash for his son’s bail.”

  Ellen made a scornful noise, and I suspected she was about to compare the level of bail with the millions of dollars that the senator spent on his own election campaigns. “Damn Rickie,” I blurted out before Ellen could say anything. I was thinking of Bonefish’s loss, which was so much greater than any the senator had suffered.

  Smedley turned on me suddenly, as though my words had alarmed or intrigued him. “Are you apprised of Rickie Crowninshield’s present whereabouts?” he asked in a very nasal but oddly toneless voice.

  “Of course I’m bloody not.” I was annoyed with Smedley for being so rude to us, and I had no intention of making his life easy or my answers to him pleasant.

  “At this time we are searching for the senator’s children”—Smedley was quite unmoved by my anger—”and our best indications of their whereabouts will surely come from tracing Jesse Sweetman. What can you tell me about Sweetman?”

  I said I merely knew Sweetman was an American, a southerner, and that Rickie had claimed him as his drug dealer.

  “He’s a very fashionable dresser.” Ellen added the detail sarcastically, but Warren Smedley took out a notebook and solemnly wrote down the sartorial information before continuing with his questions. Had either of us heard the dead gunmen’s names mentioned on board Wavebreaker?

  No.

  And Miguel. Could we add to the description we had given of Miguel to the Bahamian Police?

  No.

  And Dream Baby?

  “You can’t miss Dream Baby,” I said bitterly. “It must be the most over-painted boat in the islands!”

  Smedley dutifully wrote the words ‘over-painted’ in his notebook, but I sensed that the DEA agent was merely going through the motions and did not really expect to learn anything new or useful from us. “Do you have anything to add to the statement you made to the Bahamian Police, Mr Breakspear?” He asked. “Or you, Dr Skandinsky?”

  “No,” Ellen and I answered at the same time. Like me, Ellen had made a very full statement to the police, and we had both tried to identify the men who had boarded Wavebreaker by searching through huge piles of photographs, but neither of us, nor Jackson Chatterton, had recognised Miguel or the two gunmen I had shot. The police had shown most interest in my story, and for two days they had kept me locked up in ‘protective custody’. I had confidently believed that the baleful Deacon Billingsley was behind my incarceration and I had spent the whole two days expecting to be charged with murder when, quite suddenly, the entire affair had evaporated. No one was to be charged with any killing; indeed the police had dismissed the two dead gunmen as my fantasy for, they said, no bodies had been found and no complaints had been received. Thessy’s murder, which was indisputably real, was written off as being caused ‘by a person or persons unknown’.

  It was suddenly as if nothing untoward had ever happened in the lagoon of Sea Rat Cay. Nor had any newspaper taken any interest. No journalist had known that the famous Senator Crowninshield’s children were aboard the schooner, so the senator had been spared that embarrassment. No American citizens had died so no mainland newspaper was curious about the boat’s sinking, and the island papers could not get exercised over the death of one teenager from Straker’s Cay. Thessy was not the first innocent islander to be murdered by drug-runners, nor would he be the last, and the only newspaper which had even mentioned his death had shown no indignation at his murder.

  The whole matter had thus magically subsided. I had been released from jail and given back my damp passport which had been among the items already rescued from the stranded Wavebreaker, and now it was evident that the senator, or at least his aide, was welcoming that utter lack of interest. “We would appreciate it if the two of you would exercise some reticence about these events?” Denise Harriman said to Ellen and me. “We’ve been most fortunate in the lack of media interest so far, and we would prefer it if none was provoked until the senator can satisfactorily resolve the situation. I hope you understand me?”

  “Entirely,” I said bitterly. “You want us to shut up.”

  “Exactly so.” Denise Harriman rewarded me w
ith a cold smile.

  “Tell me,” I said, “was it pressure from the senator that had me released from custody?” It suddenly made sense that George Crowninshield would try to avoid any publicity about his children’s escapades. The events at Sea Rat Cay could have denied him the presidency, and I wondered just how he planned to recover from their effect for, though there had been no publicity yet, there would surely be a flurry of press interest when Rickie Crowninshield did not turn up for his court appearance.

  Denise Harriman was not interested in discussing it with me. Instead she looked at her watch, then made some pious and predictable remarks about the day’s sad duty. I began to repeat my question about whether the senator had been responsible for hushing up the whole business, but Ellen nudged me into silence, implying that I wasted my breath because the answer was obvious.

  Denise Harriman stepped away, and I thought our business was done, but Warren Smedley still had a surprise for us. “At this time”—he was clearly one of those Americans who thought that using the word ‘now’ betrayed a lack of education—”we have a duty to alert you against the possibilities of reprisal activities.”

  I gaped at him. Ellen frowned. “I’m sorry?” she asked.

  “It is probable that the men who accompanied Jesse Sweetman will wish to exact a revenge for the deaths of their companions. The drug-trafficking business is mostly conducted by families who take a particular pride in avenging the deaths of any family members. The best advice of the DEA at this time is that you both leave the islands forthwith. I trust I make myself clear?”

  “You mean they’ll try and kill us?” I asked, not because I had failed to understand Smedley’s warning, but because it seemed so fantastic.

  “Precisely that, Mr Breakspear. And not only will they be seeking revenge, but you are the only witnesses who can testify against them in a murder trial.” Smedley gestured towards Thessy’s grave.

  I felt no particular fear because Smedley’s warning seemed merely dutiful; a warning that the Drug Enforcement Administration would give to anyone who happened to find themselves on the outskirts of the drug trade’s savagery. My own feeling was that Sweetman and Rickie, having got what they wanted, would not provoke further trouble by another display of violence. “I’ll keep a watchful eye open,” I said lightly.

  “You’d do better to leave the islands,” Smedley said, but without any real force, then he stepped back and turned away without another word. Denise Harriman nodded icily at us, then fell into step beside the DEA agent. The two suited each other; they were as spare and cold as two scalpels lying on a surgeon’s tray.

  “God damn them!” Ellen glared after the retreating couple. “Do you get the feeling that Thessy died for nothing?” There could be no satisfactory answer and, in hopeless resignation, Ellen put her hands on my shoulders and rested her head against my chest. I could smell the scent of shampoo in her hair. “Oh, God,” she suddenly said, “I never knew there were so many hymns,” then she began to cry. I held her and tried to soothe her. At the far side of the graveyard, uncomfortable in a black suit, Jackson Chatterton had been trying to stop the goats from eating the flowers on Thessy’s grave, but was now being questioned by Warren Smedley.

  “Walk with me.” Ellen sniffed back her tears, took my hand and led me along the shore where the small lagoon waves broke amidst a rubble of dead coral and broken limestone. “Do you think they’ll really try to take revenge on us?” she asked, not with any fear in her voice, but rather with a note of almost academic curiosity.

  I shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “I won’t run away. I’ve got a boat to mend.” I had never finished the fortnight’s shakedown cruise, so the senator had not needed to assume responsibility for Masquerade which was still propped up in Bonefish’s yard.

  Ellen and I walked on in silence until we reached the deep rock pool where Thessy had been baptised. Two lizards stared at us from the pool’s stony margin, then darted away as we came too close. We stopped by the pool and I stared out to sea where the white bridge stack of a bulk carrier showed just above the horizon. “You should leave the islands,” I said.

  Ellen smiled. “Male chauvinist Nick. I’ll never change you, will I? You’ll stay, but I should run away.”

  “I’m not the one with intellectual reservations against the use of violence,” I said, “but you are.”

  “But evidently not when I was threatened with rape.” She spoke grimly, then let go of my hand to crouch beside the baptistry pool into which she idly flicked small scraps of broken shell that sideslipped through the clear water to the sandy bottom. “I’m probably leaving Freeport anyway,” she said.

  “You are?” I could not hide the note of disappointment in my voice. I did not want to believe that the loss of Wavebreaker would mean the end of our friendship. I had already lost Thessy, and now Ellen?

  “The Project wants someone to do some field research on Great Inagua”—she spoke of the Literacy Project—”and I’d really like to do it. And I’d be safe there. No one will look for me on Great Inagua.”

  “You’ll hate it,” I said fervently. “It’s nothing but salt works and mosquitoes as big as seagulls.”

  She made a face at the thought of the mosquitoes. “My other alternative is to boat-sit for Marge and Barry.” Marge and Barry Steinway were a married couple who had both lectured at Ellen’s university, and who, on retirement, had bought a thirty-six-foot catamaran called Addendum which they sailed between the Florida Keys and the Bahamas. “They want to visit their new grandchild in Vermont,” Ellen explained, “and Marge is lecturing at a summer school in New Hampshire, so they asked me to look after Addendum for a few weeks. I thought I might even sail her to the Keys? It would be good practice, wouldn’t it?”

  “For crossing the Pacific?” I asked with a ridiculous surge of anticipation.

  “I can’t think what else it would be good practice for, can you?” Ellen twisted to smile up at me. “I know I can’t use the sextant properly yet, but I’ll use the Loran, and it will be my first night all alone at sea. And I’ll be safe in the Keys, because no one will know where I am, and perhaps I’ll go and explore the Dry Tortugas because I’ve always wanted to see them.” Ellen seemed to be talking to stop herself from crying. “To be honest I’d rather have a job that paid real money, and Marge and Barry said I mustn’t worry if one was offered to me, because Addendum will be safe enough in its marina, but I’d like to do it. I’d like to prove I can do a voyage on my own.”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  “At present it’s either Addendum or Great Inagua.” She stood and brushed shell scraps from her hands. “I’ll probably make up my mind on the ferry tonight. I’d really like to earn some money, but no one seems to be hiring.”

  “You could stay here,” I said hopefully.

  She smiled at me, but said nothing. Instead she began walking back towards the graveyard.

  “Couldn’t you?” I pressed her.

  “There’s no work for me here, Nick.” She held out her hand, inviting me to catch up with her. “So what will you do?”

  “I’ll work on Masquerade.”

  She frowned. “Won’t they look for you here?”

  “I’ll be careful.” We walked slowly beside the sea. A plane took off from the airstrip, drowning the island in its noise, and I supposed that it was taking Denise Harriman and Warren Smedley back to the mainland. The din of the aircraft temporarily scared the goats away from Thessy’s grave.

  “Where shall we meet?” Ellen asked suddenly. “I mean for our voyage?”

  “Miami? Fort Lauderdale? Key West? I’ll write to you if you give me an address.”

  “And when shall we leave?” she asked.

  “Sometime in late September,” I guessed. “Maybe October.”

  She stopped and cradled my face in her dry warm hands. “Till then, Nick, take care.”

  “Of course.”

>   “Because we’re going to sail away for ever and a day.” She smiled, and I suddenly realised just how much in love with her I was, and the knowledge almost broke my heart because a ferry was taking her away from me this very evening.

  “You take care, too,” I told her.

  “I shall, of course I shall,” she said, then she took her hands from my face because Jackson Chatterton was coming to join us. “I suppose we’d all better go and sing some more hymns,” Ellen said sadly, and so we did.

  PART THREE

  The mourners were still singing in Bonefish’s yard as I walked Ellen and Chatterton to the stone pier where the Straker’s Cay passengers waited for the ferry’s arrival. The bay was too shallow to let the big boat come right up to the pier, so all the passengers and freight had to be shuttled out in a red-painted motorboat that was moored at the foot of a precariously narrow iron ladder at the pier’s seaward end. One of the adventures of landing on or leaving from Straker’s Cay was negotiating that rusting and perilous ladder.

  We arrived at the pier at dusk. There was no sign of the ferry yet, though that was nothing unusual for the boats were often hours late in edging into the small bay, but for entertainment there was always the islanders’ conversation as well as a small palm-thatched hut where lukewarm Coca-Cola and thin beer could be bought. “Don’t wait,” Ellen said to me, “we’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t mind waiting.”

  “Don’t, please,” she said, and I realised that the prospect of waiting with me, with so much to say and no real privacy in which to say it, was troubling Ellen, and so I said goodbye to Jackson Chatterton, who was going back to his clinic in America, and then I kissed Ellen.