A Woman Involved (16 page)

The plane droned through the night. They hardly spoke. The cocoon of the cockpit, the noise of the engines, the vibration. Anna’s face was gaunt in the glow of the instruments. She was flying the plane on automatic, trying to push the horror of the night out of her mind, and what lay ahead. They had been through the checklist together, until they knew where everything was. Morgan had flown the plane for an hour, to get the feel of it, so he could take over from her and let her rest. But he felt far from confident. Anna was dreading landing. Though she had not told him that. He had enough to worry about. Standard Approach and Landing Procedure. Yes, but on what, in what wind? In what light? She had never landed on anything other than a proper airfield. Morgan was over the shock now, the terror of almost being murdered; now he only felt the feverish fury with himself for failing to offload the drugs, and murderous hatred. He had never killed a man before and it did not bother him one bit that he had just killed two – and he would furiously murder the next drug bastard who crossed his path.

But please God not today … 

Oh God, today …  In a few hours, they had to put this plane
down somewhere in the Bahamas. Today, way ahead in that blackness, the bastards were waiting for this plane … 

If it weren’t for the drugs he would have flown the plane straight into America. Arriving in daylight, finding an airfield, and brazening it out. Telling some tale and abandoning the aeroplane. It would have been risky, but private pilots are buzzing around America all the time. But the drugs made that impossible.

So it had to be the Bahamas. The safest place to land a plane loaded with drugs. The Bahamas, however, was exactly where the drug bastards were waiting for this plane … 

He looked at her. ‘Rest,’ he said. ‘We need you rested.’

‘I am resting.’

‘Try to sleep. I’ll watch her.’

Anna closed her eyes.

Course three-three-zero degrees. Straight across the island of Andros, for the islands of Bimini. That’s where he had said they should land. She had been relieved, because it had a conventional airfield. ‘Shee-it,’ Big King had said, ‘the whole fuckin’ Caribbean’s got more illegal fuckin’ airstrips for drug smugglers than Carter’s got pills …’ Indeed the chart had scores of airstrips marked on it in pencil on dozens of islands. But she had been frightened of landing on anything but a conventional airfield. So Morgan had said Bimini, to put her mind at rest. But he dared not land there, or on any other airstrip. He dared not land a stolen smugglers’ aeroplane on islands infested with murderous drug smugglers who were gunning for them. And even if they were lucky and landed the plane without being seen, how would they get off any one island, to the next? And to the next after that? He didn’t know the islands – nor did Anna. There was only one way to land this plane and get rid of it.

Morgan sat in the glow of the instruments, his mouth dry and salty, and told himself there was nothing to it.

One of the first things they teach you at flying school … 

Except you never actually
do
it at flying school. Or any other time, if you have your way. Everybody
knows
how to do it, but only the unlucky few have ever had to – not even those shit-hot instructors have ever done it.

He glanced at Anna. She seemed to be asleep at last.

In the hour before dawn he saw the scattered lights of Andros. Where José Luis had said this plane was bound for, where, right now, some murderous bastards were waiting to collect their millions of dollars’ worth of drugs.

God, Morgan wanted this next hour to be over.

The pinprick lights grew closer and closer. Then the southern shoreline of Andros was sliding under the aircraft’s nose.

A hundred miles or so to the Biminis.

Morgan checked the chart, mentally did the arithmetic again. And he shut those bastards down there out of his mind.

The very first light was coming into the east when he made out the lights of the Bimini islands, dotted south to north in the vast Gulf Stream.

Closer and closer they came. He peered, searching the sea for lights of boats. There were none. He prayed,
Please God no unlit ones, and please God a flat sea … 

‘Wake up.’

She opened her eyes, startled. She had not been asleep.

He said over the intercom: ‘Those are the lights of Bimini ahead. Are you properly awake?’

‘Yes? …’ Her hands, went to the yoke.

‘She’s still on automatic. Now, listen. Those drugs are still aboard. The car came before I could unlock the door and throw them out.’

She looked at him in the glow of the instruments. ‘Oh my God …’

He said quietly, ‘So we daren’t put this plane down on any airstrip, Anna. And we daren’t fly it to America either. So we’re going to put her down very gently on the sea. And sink her. Get rid of her. There’s a life raft aboard, life belts. Now, they taught me at flying school how to ditch at sea. Did they teach you?’

She was white-faced.

‘Yes, of course, but we never practised –’

‘Of course not, nobody does. But can you do it now? If you can’t, I can. But you’re the better flyer.’

‘Oh my God …’ she breathed.

The coast of Bimini was six miles away to the left, a small sprinkle of lights.

Anna brought the plane down, down, towards the flat dark sea, her knuckles white, her face white, her heart pounding. Only her instruments told her how high she was. Down, further down, she came, then they saw it, black and terrible, rushing up to meet them. She levelled out, her heart pounding. The sea hurtled past below. She looked frantically at the altimeter – she was sixty feet above it. Down further; now fifty. Now forty. Thirty. Now twenty, now fifteen. The black water was hurtling by just beneath them. Lower she came. Now the sea was ten feet below, flashing past. Now six. Now four. Every fibre of her was tensed and screaming.
Three,
and she eased back the yoke and the nose lifted slightly, and she slammed off the engines.

The tail hit first, and there was a lurch that wrenched them forward, then the wheels hit. There was another gut-wrenching jerk and spray flew like stones and there was a blinding crashing jolt that hurled them forwards and there was nothing in the world but the sea flying over them like grapeshot. And the plane ploughed to a blinding stop.

‘
Out!
’ Morgan rasped.

Anna flung off her seat belt and flung open her door. She scrambled out onto the wing.

The plane floated, half submerged. Morgan frantically unlashed the life raft. He wrenched open the emergency exit, and shoved the life raft through into the sea, and he ripped the cord. There was a bang and the rubber raft mushroomed with a hissing noise.

He scrambled out of his seat, across hers, out onto the wing. The water was rushing in, up to the seats now. Anna heaved the raft up to the wing. He grabbed the painter from her. ‘
Get in!
’

She got into the raft. Morgan crouched into it, and shoved off with all his might. He snatched up an oar. He punted hard away from the sinking plane.

He paddled twenty yards, then stopped, panting.

The aircraft was settling now. The wings were submerged. Just the tail and the cockpit and propellers were showing. He looked feverishly all around, at the horizon.

There were no boats in sight. Bimini was just a flat blur.

The plane was sinking fast now. Anna had her head in her hand, holding her stomach. Morgan said: ‘
Bloody well done.
’ He picked up the other oar.

Scattered along the airfield of Bimini are the twisted fuselages of smugglers’ aeroplanes that have not landed too well. The planes bring in the cocaine and heroin and marijuana from South America; in the harbour lie the boats that take it on to Florida, only fifty miles away. And out there, beyond the blue horizon, are the United States Coastguard, the fast cutters with cannon, the helicopters and the spotter aircraft. Sometimes there are shoot-outs, sometimes the smugglers set fire to their boats in mid-Gulf Stream to destroy the evidence before the Coastguard cutter catches up, sometimes pilots ditch their planes and take to their rafts to get away from pursuing aircraft, sometimes the Coastguard make big hauls: but there are just too many boats and aircraft to catch them all.

The sun was well up when Morgan and Anna walked into the town. The air was oily warm. Morgan’s chest felt raspy from over-smoking and he felt sweaty, wrung-out, exhausted. And very conspicuous. They walked through the little town in the early morning, carrying the bag, trying to look like two tourists out for an early stroll, desperately looking for an open café to hide in until more people were about. To check into a hotel at this hour would have made them more conspicuous. They walked past the Elizabeth Hotel. Ahead was the harbour. The whole town was quiet, not yet open for breakfast. Then they saw Fred’s Eating House, the door open, a black man mopping the entrance.

They sat at a window, which overlooked the waterfront road, and drank beer while Fred mopped the floor and Mrs Fred cooked breakfast. The beer went into his empty gut like food. God, he was tired. And still shaken. Anna put her hand on his. ‘Before we do anything more we’ve got to sleep.’

‘We’ve got to get off this island today.’

‘Not before you’ve slept.’

‘You did the flying – you’re the one who needs sleep.’

Just then there was the sound of an aeroplane approaching. It was a seaplane. It came roaring low over the harbour, big and white. Then it hit the water and spray flew. It went churning down the harbour. It came to a stop and turned. It came churning towards the shore. On the waterfront was a wired enclosure with a concrete ramp into the sea. Two wheels unfolded under the plane’s wings, and disappeared into the water. The seaplane ploughed towards the ramp, then came roaring up it like a huge duck. Chocks were put against its wheels. It cut its engines. The door opened, and passengers started climbing out.

‘We’ll say we came in on that plane. I’ll go and get us a hotel room. Stay here.’

He walked out of the eating house. He headed back down the waterfront, to the Elizabeth Hotel.

It was a small hotel. He checked in, and went upstairs to the room. Its window overlooked the street. The door locks were sound. He looked down the corridor; there was no fire escape. That was a pity. He went downstairs to the foyer. There Was a framed nautical chart on the wall showing the Bimini islands and the coast of Florida. He ran his eye down the American coast, looking for ports. Then he left the hotel.

The first passengers were coming along the waterfront. He felt better, with other people about. He walked back to Fred’s. Anna smiled at him as he entered. He was not yet used to her having black hair. He picked up his beer and drank it down, down, down.

‘Two more beers here, please.’

‘See those long boats?’ Anna said.

There were five or six, tied to moorings. They were sleek, with high prows. On the sterns of each were at least two, sometimes three, big outboard motors. Anna said: ‘Those are the ones smugglers use all over the Caribbean. Called “cigarette boats”. They can do seventy miles an hour. Outrun any Coastguard boat.’

Fred brought the beers. He said, ‘You folks up early.’

Anna said, ‘We’ve been for a walk.’ She added: ‘To watch the sunrise.’

Morgan said, ‘Beautiful.’ He was beginning to feel better, with the beer.

Fred picked up his mop again. ‘Didn’t see that plane, did you?’

Morgan’s beer stopped in front of his mouth.

‘What plane?’

‘Plane ditched into the sea round about dawn. The boys out lookin’ for it now.’

Anna was white-faced.

‘Was it a passenger plane?’

‘Hell, no. What d’you think it was carryin’?’

Morgan said: ‘What boys are out looking for it?’

The black man said, ‘Black Cat’s boys.’

‘Who’s Black Cat?’

Fred glanced at them. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Okay. You don’ know who Black Cat is, Fred ain’t the guy to shoot his mouth off.’

Anna stared at him. ‘Were there any survivors?’

‘Must be, lady, ’cos they found the life raft buried on the beach.’

Morgan took a deep breath.

‘But was it Black Cat’s plane, or his cargo, or what?’

‘Don’ ask me, Mister, the boys gonna be askin’ plenty questions enough.’

Mrs Fred came out of the kitchen, carrying plates. She put them down in front of them. Morgan felt sick in his guts. He said softly to Anna:

‘As soon as we’ve finished this, I’m taking you to the hotel. Lock yourself in. I’m going straight out to rent us a boat. I don’t like the sound of this Black Cat.’

It was too early for many people to be about, but he could not wait. He walked along the harbour. There were several signs offering boats for hire. He saw a black boy fishing on a jetty.

‘Who rents boats around here, son?’

The boy pointed at the next jetty. ‘Charlie do.’

Morgan walked back to the road, to the next jetty. An old
white man was sitting on a small yacht, drinking tea. ‘Good morning, are you Charlie?’

‘Yep, sure am.’

‘I want to rent a boat. For a few days’ fishing. Without crew. What have you got?’

‘But I knows where the fish hangs out,’ old Charlie said. ‘You needs me along.’

Morgan’s nerves were stretched tight. ‘We want to be alone, we don’t care if we don’t catch fish. Lie in the sun, drink a little wine. Do a bit of scuba diving. A little nude swimming.’

‘Aw, shucks,’ old Charlie said, ‘I’m used to that. I don’t
like
rentin’ my boats bare.’

‘Then it’s no deal.’

Old Charlie said grumpily: ‘Okay …’ He looked at him. ‘You ain’t figurin’ on divin’ on that aeroplane crashed this mornin’, are yer?’

Morgan’s heart missed a beat again. ‘What aeroplane?’

‘Ditched into the sea this morning, that’s all I knows.’

‘Were there any survivors?’

‘Danged if I know. But the boys is out lookin’ for the wreck and they won’t take kindly to strangers tryin’ to muscle in.’

‘What boys?’

Old Charlie smirked., ‘Shucks, what boys? What d’yer think was on that plane? Worth a lot of money. An’ the boys will be lookin’ for it, an’ they won’t take kindly to you helpin’ them. Like, cut your throat.’