The Khufra Run. Jack Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ for, in spite of the wetsuit, it was cold.

      I was getting old, that was the trouble. Too old for this kind of nonsense. The cold ate into me like acid and I was gripped by a mood of savage despair. Everything I had in the world was tied up in the Otter. Without it I was nothing. On the beach once and for all and no way back.

      I surfaced close to the slipway and found Turk sitting cross-legged on the beach, a blanket around his shoulders. There was a bottle of that cheap local brandy wedged in the sand between his feet and he nursed a tin cup in both hands.

      ‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked.

      ‘The only way to live.’

      He swallowed some more of that terrible brandy and nodded slightly, a curiously vacant look in his eyes. It was as if he was not really there, in spirit at least.

      He said, ‘Okay, General, what’s it all about?’

      So I told him. The mill at La Grande, Claire Bouvier, Redshirt and his friends - the whole bit and as I talked, the sun edged its way over the point, flooding the creek with light.

      When I was finished he shook his head and sighed heavily. ‘You never did learn to mind your own business did you? Little friend of all the world.’

      ‘That’s me,’ I said. ‘Now let’s have your professional opinion.’

      ‘Simple. You’ve been looking in the wrong place. The way the currents run in this cove you should have tried the mid-channel.’

      My heart, as they say, sank. ‘But it’s fifteen or sixteen fathoms in places out there.’

      ‘I know, General. I know.’ He smiled wearily. ‘Which is why you’re going to need papa. Give me five minutes to get into my gear. We’ll use the inflatable with the outboard and make sure there’s at least twenty fathoms of line on the anchor. We’re going to need it out there.’

      I said, ‘Are you sure you feel up to this?’

      ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he replied without even an attempt at a smile.

      He turned and walked away with a curious kind of dignity, the blanket trailing from his shoulders like a cloak and yet there was something utterly and terrifyingly wrong. Earlier when I had attempted to waken him he had seemed like a corpse. Now the corpse walked. It was simple as that.

      I was crouched in the dinghy in mid-channel taking a breather just before nine o’clock when Turk surfaced and gave me the sign. I adjusted my mouthpiece, went over the side and followed him down through around ten fathoms of smoke-grey water.

      The Otter was crouched in a patch of seagrass like some strange marine monster. From a distance everything seemed perfectly normal and then, when I was close enough, I saw the holes ripped in the floats and hull.

      So that was very much that and there was certainly nothing to hang around for. I followed Turk up and surfaced beside the dinghy. He spat out his mouthpiece and grinned savagely.

      ‘Somebody’s a handy man with a fireaxe. You certainly know how to win friends and influence people.’

      I pulled myself into the dinghy, unstrapped my aqualung and started the outboard. ‘All right, so I’m splitting my sides laughing. What are the prospects?’

      ‘Of raising her?’ He shrugged. ‘Oh, I could do it, but I’d need to have a couple of pontoons and a steam winch and we’d need to recruit half-a-dozen locals as general labourers.’

      ‘How long?’

      ‘A month - maybe more if the weather plays us up, but whatever happens it would cost you. Four, maybe five thousand dollars and that would be cutting it to the bone, a friend for a friend.’

      Which still left repairs to the floats and hull and the entire engine would have to be stripped, the control system. And add to that the airworthiness check the authorities would insist on before she flew again. God alone knows how much that would cost.

      ‘Is it on?’ he asked.

      I shook my head. ‘Not in a thousand years.’

      ‘What about insurance?’

      ‘Nothing that would cover this. I could never afford the right kind of premium.’

      I killed the motor as we drifted in through the shallows and we got out and pulled the dinghy up onto the beach together.

      Turk picked up his aqualung. ‘This character in the red shirt and wire glasses. I’ll ask around. Somebody must know him.’

      ‘What good would that do?’ I said bitterly. ‘He could never pay for this.’

      ‘Maybe not, but you could always take it out of his hide some, after asking him politely why he did it?’

      I suppose it was only then that the full extent of the catastrophe really got through to me and I kicked out at the inflatable dinghy savagely.

      ‘Why?’ I said. ‘Why?’

      ‘I’d say the girl was the person to put that question to.’

      ‘Claire Bouvier?’

      ‘She didn’t want the police in on things did she? She told you it wasn’t how it looked. This creep tried to run you down in a truck and failing in that direction, sees the Otter off and leaves you a warning to mind your own business. I’d say if anyone can throw any light on the situation it should be her.’

      I glanced at my watch. It was just after nine-thirty. ‘Okay, that makes sense if nothing else does. I’ve arranged to meet her at ten o’clock at the Iglesia de Jesus. You want to come along for the ride?’

      He smiled, that strange, melancholy smile of his. ‘Not me, General, I haven’t been to church in years. It’s not my scene and neither is this. I’ve got my own coffin to carry. You’re on your own.’

      And on that definite and rather sombre note, he turned and walked into the cottage.

      The Iglesia de Jesus is no more than a ten-minute drive from the town and stands in the middle of some of the richest farmland in Ibiza. An area criss-crossed with irrigation ditches, whitewashed farmhouses dotting a landscape that is strikingly beautiful. Lemon groves and wheatfields everywhere, even palm trees combining with the Moorish architecture of the houses to paint a picture that is more North African than European.

      The church itself is typical of country churches to be found all over the island. Beautifully simple in design, blindingly white in the Mediterranean sun. A perfect setting for one of the most glorious pieces of Gothic art in Europe.

      When I opened the door and went inside it was like diving into cool water. The silence was so intense that for a moment, I paused as if waiting for something though I hadn’t the slightest idea what. A sign perhaps, from heaven to tell me that everything was for the best in this best of all possible worlds. That my own experience of life and its rottenness was simply an illusion after all.

      There was the usual smell of incense, candles flickered down by the altar. There was no one there, and I suddenly knew with a kind of anger, that the girl wasn’t СКАЧАТЬ