name do I put on the cheque?’ Morgan said.
Big King looked at him. ‘You really gonna send me a cheque?’
‘Yes.’
Big King looked away. He dug the oars into the water.
‘Morris Longbottom,’ he muttered.
Local knowledge, that’s what he desperately needed.
Big King had told him there was a railway station in Garrucha. There must also be a bus station. The port was only for fishing boats. There was no airport. But the jungle was full of airstrips used by smugglers for flipping drugs out of the country, Big King had said.
They walked fast along the beach towards the town. By now the British and the Yanks would have their people throughout the Caribbean looking for them. And so would the Russians.
In the sunrise they climbed up a rocky path, onto the road leading into Garrucha.
The town was not yet awake. They walked through the shacks on the outskirts. Then they were entering town. The shops were still shut. A woman in black was mopping the pavement. Down sidestreets, they could glimpse the harbour, fishing boats, nets. Ahead was a plaza, silent in the early morning.
It was lined with old buildings. On the opposite side of the square, a man was wiping down tables outside a café. They walked in and sat down in a far corner. The barman called, ‘Sí?’
Anna ordered coffee and brandy.
The drinks came. Morgan swallowed his brandy, in one go. Anna did the same, and shuddered. She gave a bleak smile. Morgan, held up two fingers at the barman and called:
‘Coñac, por favor.’
They sipped the coffee. It was good and strong. He sat there, feeling the balm of it. He was about to speak, and she put her hand on his. She said:
‘Thank you. From my heart. For what you’ve done.’
‘Because I love you,’ he said.
She closed her eyes and squeezed his hand. ‘But you also did it because you believe it morally right.’
He smiled. ‘All right …’ He hunched forward on the table. ‘We’re in South America. Now tell me where we go from here.’
She held his hand across the table.
‘New York,’ she said. ‘Manhattan.’
He was relieved. ‘Both safety-deposit boxes recorded on the page you tore out of the notebook are in New York?’
She shook her head. ‘Only one. But that’s the most likely.’
‘And where is the other box?’
‘Switzerland.’
He stroked his eyebrow. Opposite sides of the world.
‘Why do you think New York is the most likely place?’
‘Because the night Max and I had the drunken row – he said he had the evidence in New York. In very safe custody, were his words. And he had no other bank in New York that I know of. And no New York bank is listed in his will. Only in the notebook.’
‘What did the note say?’
‘Just the box number, plus the letters H.K.S.B. Which stand for Hongkong and Shanghai Bank. That safety-deposit box is in our joint names. We opened it together last year. He’d bought me some expensive jewellery, he was on one of his spending sprees. We had to go up-state for a week. So he rented a deposit box for all this loot.’
‘In your joint names? So you can walk into the bank and open that box?’
‘Yes. I never did it. Max got the jewellery out for me a week later. But I remember he rented it for one year.’
Morgan sat back. Relief. ‘Well, this is easy. We just go to the bank and you open the box. Then get a lawyer. No lies, no forged signatures.’
He unzipped her bag, and pulled out the list he had made of all entries and exits from Max’s three passports. He studied it.
‘You had your drunken row on your birthday, the twentieth of June last year. Two days before that, on the eighteenth, God’s Banker was found hanging in London. The same day Max arrived in London. The same day he flew to New York. The next day he flew back to you in Grenada. The day after that was your birthday.’ He thought he was getting somewhere. ‘When Max had this outburst did he mention God’s Banker being hanged? As proof that he had the evidence?’
‘No. I’ve told you that already.’
He did not believe her. He consulted the list again.
‘The next day he went to Switzerland. Via New York.’ He tapped the list. ‘He may have gone to New York to get the microfilm out of the deposit box – because you had access to it. And gone to Switzerland to put it in a new box.’
‘But we have to check out New York.’
‘Oh, yes.’ He hesitated; then turned her face towards him. ‘Anna? It’s time you told me what’s on this microfilm.’
Her exhausted eyes were the most beautiful he had ever seen. She said:
‘Jack? … Darling Jack. I do trust you. But I’m not going to tell you. Because what you don’t know you cannot be made to tell.’
He sat back wearily. All right, that would have to wait, he was too tired to argue with her now. He said:
‘We must dye your hair. And buy some clothes. The British know what we’re wearing.’
She nodded, eyes pressed closed. ‘And then?’
He said, ‘We can’t go to America from Caracas airport. Or any airport. They’ll be watching for us at obvious places like that.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I haven’t got a passport. Except Max’s. I can change his photograph for mine. But they’ll be watching for the name of Hapsburg.’
The waiter came with two more steaming coffees. He spoke something in Spanish and Anna translated: ‘You want anything to eat?’
He couldn’t think of eating. ‘No, you have something.’
She shook her head. The waiter went away. She said: ‘We could buy forged passports in Caracas.’
‘But that’ll take time. And time’s our problem.’ He sighed. ‘We must assume that every available British, American and KGB agent in the Caribbean area is looking for us in the obvious places. Therefore, we’ve got to get out without going through immigration formalities anywhere.’
She massaged her forehead. ‘So, we must charter an aeroplane.’
‘But where? Go to a flying club? By now the Brits and Yanks will have places like that covered too. And how do you persuade the guy to charter you his aeroplane without going through normal immigration formalities?’
‘With money. We’re in South America, remember.’
He said: ‘Big King put me onto a guy in this town called José Luis.’
‘Who?’
‘José Luis, the local Mr Big if you want to buy a ton of cocaine. He’s also into “wet-backs”, smuggling people illegally into the States to work. When it comes to anything in this town, José Luis is your man.’
‘Lord – we can’t go in an aircraft that’s running drugs.’
‘Of course not. We’re in enough difficulty without having the Drug Enforcement Agency on our backs. No, we either charter an aircraft to ourselves through José Luis, or go with a bunch of wet-backs.’
She stroked her eyebrows worriedly. ‘How do we find this guy?’
‘Big King says we ask at a joint called Bar García.’