A Woman Involved (5 page)

Morgan said: ‘There seems to be a big Cuban influence here. I saw them at the airport. What does Max think about that?’

‘Russian influence too. They’re building a big new airport.’ She sighed. ‘Max is a moderating influence. He’s persuading the Prime Minister to mend some of his fences with America.’

He said: ‘And you? You’re still a socialist?’

She looked at the sand as she walked.

‘Yes. Though I’m a bit more practical than when you knew me. I certainly don’t like what this government has done – nor what the communists are doing worldwide. But, yes, I want to see the wealth spread down to the workers who create it. Not stay in the hands of the fat shareholders who pay miserable wages. And, as far as I can see, the only way to achieve that, in cases where capitalism is entrenched and unfair, is for the workers’ government to take over and own the source of wealth.’ She smiled sadly. ‘We had many an argument about this at university, didn’t we? So now can we talk about you? …’

The sun was getting low. They lay under the palms, a yard apart; she traced a pattern in the sand while he said:

‘We were cruising happily up the Channel, back to Plymouth. We were going to dock before sunset. Your telegram was handed to me. And …’ He shook his head, half-smiling: ‘I couldn’t believe it. I just
couldn’t
believe it …  I thought maybe it was some kind of bad practical joke from my mates ashore. Then I believed it – but I still didn’t. I had to concentrate on my job, and I kept thinking I was still marrying you in three
days’ time.’ He smiled, because it didn’t matter now, everything was wonderful again now. ‘Anyway, we slogged on up the Channel. It seemed the longest passage of my life. I was bursting to get off the boat and go charging up the jetty to leap on the next aeroplane to Grenada.’

She closed her eyes. ‘Oh, why didn’t you? …’

He was happy. ‘Your telegram said: “Marrying Max tomorrow.” It was dated the day before.’

Her eyes were moist. ‘I didn’t marry him until several days later …  But you wouldn’t have found me, anyway. I was in Las Vegas. He persuaded me to get the hell off the island. He was scared you’d show up. But …’ She breathed deep: ‘I couldn’t marry him for days.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, I was in such a mess. Each day he wanted to drag me off to one of those ghastly wedding chapels. But I
couldn’t,
because I was still in a nightmare about you. Oh my, you don’t know how many times I nearly jumped on a plane and went screaming over to England.’

He sighed. ‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I was in a much worse way than you because I was the one who had made all the heavy-duty decisions! I had taken it unto myself to change the course of the universe – I had been through all that agony of decision to turn my back on my knight in shining armour! …’ She laughed tearfully: ‘You only had to
accept
the decision without pranging the submarine!’

Morgan grinned. She smiled wanly. ‘I did kind of love Max. I was
in
love with you but I loved him. I had known him for
years,
he was part of the establishment. And he adored me. But you? …  Oh my …’ She lay back in the sand and smiled up at the sky. ‘Lieutenant-Commander Jack Morgan, RN, who went down to the sea in ships. So handsome, so brave, so expert, so charming, so sexy, who made me laugh so much, who made me
think
so much – I was only so
in
love with you. And the pressure on me was enormous – from my family, and Max. “You hardly
know
him …  You don’t really know what he’s
like
…  ” And I’d have to go and live in rainy England – they really rubbed that in. Leave this lovely island, my whole way of life, and be a Navy wife, alone half the time – you won’t even know
where
he is because it’s all so bloody secret, you
won’t even be able to
write
to him because he’s underwater, and you won’t even get any letters …  And, of course, they said, he’s got no money.’

Morgan smiled. He believed this, but he knew that something else had happened too. But he was too happy to press her. ‘They were right on that one.’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘what a mean little argument that was – and I told them so. Ah, they said, but you’re accustomed to so much, this life here, your trips to Miami and New York and Caracas …  I shouted, “He’ll be a goddam admiral soon!’”

Morgan laughed. She smiled at him. ‘Which is true. Oh, but it was an intense war that was waged against you. And it all slowly added up to a terrible doubt growing in my mind.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And you were thousands of miles away, underwater. I couldn’t contact you, to get reassurance, just talk it out with you, explain my fears …’

He reached out and took her hand.

‘Well, now I’ve come to you.’

She looked at him; then two tears welled over her eyelids. ‘Far, far too late …’

He pulled her gently towards him; she watched his mouth as he whispered: ‘It’s never too late to be happy.’

And their mouths touched; and then crushed together; and, oh, the sweet taste and scent of her again, the joy, and he felt her tremble once, and then her arm went around his neck and she kissed him fiercely; then she bit his mouth and twisted out of his arms, and jumped up. She walked away, running her fingers through her hair.

He lay a moment, watching her, the lovely line of her, and oh, he loved her. Then he got up and followed her. They were a hundred yards from the hotel lights. He caught up with her and turned her towards him.

‘Come away with me.’

She looked at him with absolute longing, rigid against him; she started to shake her head, then she closed her eyes and her body went soft against him and she crushed her mouth against his again. And she kissed him and kissed him, as if she wanted to bite him, and he felt the bliss well up, the utter joy, her strong softness and smoothness, her breasts and her belly and her loins pressed against him; then she broke the kiss, and
backed off, her face smouldering with emotion and her eyes full of tears.

–I’m going now …  And I’m never coming back …’

He took a pace towards her and she stepped backwards. ‘Never coming back!’ She shook her head at him: ‘
Do you believe that?
’

He felt his eyes burn and he wanted to laugh. ‘No.’

She cried: ‘Never! Believe that! I cannot! I dare not! I’m still a coward, don’t you see? Goodbye, darling Jack! I love you – and goodbye …’

She turned and walked away fast, up the path towards the road, her head up, and the tears running down her face.

He stood in the dusk and watched her; and his heart was singing. Because he knew she was coming back.

It was dark when he got back to the hotel. He was so happy he did not know what to do with himself. Gone, gone were the cautions he had given himself –
he was in love!
He went upstairs, to his room. Out onto his balcony. He filled his breast with balmy air and stretched out his arms to the night, and to her. Then there was a knock on his door.

He whirled around. He knew it was her. He strode to the door and flung it open joyfully.

He stared. Two black policemen stood there.

‘You come with us, Mr Morgan.’

His heart was suddenly hammering. ‘What on earth for?’

One of the policemen put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Do you come quietly, man, or do we drag you out in front of everybody?’ The other policeman pushed past him, into the room. He snatched up Morgan’s bag.

‘
What the hell
–’ Morgan lunged at him. The first man seized his wrist and glared into his eyes. For an instant Morgan was about to lash out at them; then furious common sense came back. He shook his wrist free.

‘Very well! We’ll find out what this is about!’

He strode down the corridor between them, his face like thunder.

Down the stairs, into the lobby. They went through the front doors, out into the drive.

A police car was waiting.

He strode furiously into the police station.

A room led off the charge office. One constable went into it, with Morgan’s bag. Morgan waited, seething. The constable reappeared at the door and beckoned. Morgan strode through.

A black inspector sat behind the desk, the bag on it. Morgan said furiously: ‘
I demand to know what the hell this is about!
’

The inspector put his hand into the bag, and slowly pulled out a black plastic package. It had a rubber band wrapped around it. He held it out. ‘What is this?’

Morgan stared at it. He had never set eyes on it before.

‘I’ve no idea!’

‘Open it.’

Morgan snatched it from him. He ripped open the plastic bag. Inside was a plastic box. He snatched it out and opened the lid.

Inside was fine white powder. He stared at it, aghast.

‘
You bastards,
’ he whispered.

The Officer said, ‘I think that’s cocaine, Mr Morgan. About half a kilo. Worth a lot of money.’

‘
You bastards planted that stuff on me!
’

The officer said: ‘Your fingerprints are on the box.’

‘
You’ve just made me touch the box and put my fingerprints on it!
’

The officer took the box, and carefully replaced the lid. He nodded to the constables.

Morgan spun around, his fists bunched, as the constables bounded at him and seized each arm.

They shoved him in a cell. He paced up and down. Then a voice said: ‘Morgan? …’

He spun around.

He recognized him immediately, from a photograph Anna had shown him years ago. It was Max Hapsburg who was on the other side of the bars, heavier in the face, with greying
temples. Morgan stared at him, then whispered furiously: ‘What have you done with her? If you lay a finger on her, I’ll kill you one day.’

Max said quietly: ‘No need for such gallantry. She is safe and sound and as free as the air. And she wants nothing whatsoever to do with you.’ His eyes had not left Morgan’s.

Morgan clenched his fist. ‘I demand to see a lawyer. I’m going to blow this story sky-high.’

‘I don’t think you’ll do that. I doubt anybody will believe a man who was found in possession of half a kilo of cocaine.’ He held up a finger, and went on softly, his big eyes unwavering: ‘But what you
are
going to do is stay away from my wife …’ He took a controlled, angry breath. ‘Now, you’re going to get off this island, Morgan. In a moment you’re going to find this door to be inexplicably unlocked. And you’re going to
escape
from lawful custody. There’s a taxi outside. And at the airport is a plane, flying to Miami in an hour. You’re going to board that plane, Morgan. If you don’t, you’ll be re-arrested, and put on trial for possession of drugs. And from Miami you’ll fly back to England. And …’ His big Greek eyes widened: ‘You will never … 
never
set foot on the island of Grenada again. And you will
never
contact my wife again. Because if you do …’ He pointed at the office down the corridor, ‘The police have evidence to extradite you back from England to face trial here. And you’ll go to jail for the rest of your life.’

He glared; then turned and strode away.

When Jonathan Morgan, nicknamed Jack, was eight years old, his mother, for whom everything British was unquestionably best, had insisted that he learn boxing, though the family could ill afford the additional cost on top of the exorbitant fees for the excellent public school she insisted he attend. It was essential, she said, that an English gentleman could put up his dukes and defend himself in an efficient and sportsmanlike manner. So, every Wednesday and Saturday, Jonathan Morgan went along to the school gymnasium to get himself terrorized by other little boys whose demented mothers felt the same as his. He had little natural aptitude for fisticuffs, but this biweekly ordeal soon developed a certain cunning in the unhappy young sportsman, a strategy that went like this: Come charging murderously out of your corner like a bull at a gate and knock the living shit out of the other little boy before he hurts you. Render him
hors de combat
, then he can’t hit you. This strategy back-fired because he won all his bouts, he was put on the school team, and term after term, year after year, he had to be terrorized by boys from other good public schools at boxing tournaments, extravaganzas of bloodshed and brain-damage which the mothers attended with great pride. By the time he left school he had been unbeaten champion for two years, had hated every minute of it, and he vowed never to fight again. But he brought the same bull-at-a-gate strategy to his university days. Jack Morgan was not a born sportsman, but he earned his rugby blue with suicidal tackling and fanatical fitness, and his cricket blue with sledge-hammer batting. He was brighter than most, certainly, but not sufficiently so to explain his sparkling results: he earned his Bachelor of Science degree
cum laude
only by unrelenting hard, hard work. And when he chose the Royal Navy as his career, he tackled the gruelling Marine training courses with the same grim determination, and passed with flying colours; but when it came to settling down in the service he knew that he was not a warrior at heart: he was an
academic, and he applied to join Submarines. It is more restful down there. It was nice to use just his head, and no brawn. And when, at the age of thirty-five, he was thrown out of the Royal Navy, or ‘compulsorily retired’, as a result of The Cocaine Affair, he had refused a commission in the Sultan of Oman’s navy and declined to join the lucrative company of former SAS and Special Boat boys who undertake contracts for highly paid derring-do for which they have been so well trained by Her Majesty, even though he badly needed the money. Instead he sold his house, commuted his pension, bought a second-hand freight-ship and doggedly began a precarious civilian career in merchant shipping.

It was a small freighter, only six thousand tons, in good condition but only profitable because Jack Morgan was both owner and master and he lived permanently aboard, ate from the ship’s stores and had no wife. The only other asset he owned was a little farm in the mountains of France which he had never even seen and which he had been forced to accept as payment of Makepeace’s debts when that scatterbrain had decided that being a shipping tycoon was dead boring after the Special Boat Service and decided to join the shady company of the ex-SAS and SBS boys. ‘They make such good
money,
’ Makepeace had cajoled, his triangular face all plaintive. ‘Let’s sell the ship and
both
go.’