‘So?’
‘So we’re going in to chase him into Deane’s arms.’
‘How in hell are we going to do that if there’s no interconnection?’
‘Portage,’ I said. ‘Now I’m glad we came in this boat and not the other.’
I had timed the minutes we had taken to get from one inlet to the other, and had kept a constant speed. Now we were going back, parallelling the Waterway on a minor canal. I reckoned that when we got half-way that would be the place to go overland. Presently I said, ‘This should be it. We put ashore straight ahead.’
I cut the engine and we drifted until the boat nosed the bank. ‘Keep your voice down,’ I said. ‘Robinson could very well be just on the other side of here.’
We went ashore and hauled out the inflatable. ‘We’ll take a look across there before carrying the boat over. And keep your head down.’ We walked over limestone rubble and then over an unused paved road, built for the traffic that had never come. On the other side of the road I dropped into a crouch and then on to my belly as I neared the edge of the next canal.
I peered over the bank and everything was peaceful. A light breeze ruffled the surface of the water and there was no sign of Robinson’s dory. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and looked to the left. In the middle distance I was a half-constructed house, and a man was working on the roof. I returned my attention to the canal. ‘Okay. Let’s bring up the boat.’
Billy looked back. ‘A long haul,’ he said. ‘Nearly two hundred yards.’
‘We’ll unship the engine,’ I said. ‘And the inflatable has carrying straps.’
It was hot and heavy work but we finally made the portage and were sitting in the boat with the engine resecured on the transom. I was about to start up when Billy said, ‘Listen!’
Someone in the half-built house was using a hammer, but under the rhythmic knocking I heard the faraway growl of an outboard engine. It grew louder, and I said, ‘He’s coming this way. Let’s move it.’
I started the engine, hoping that Robinson would not hear it over the noise of his own, and we moved off. I kept the pace slow and, when we had gone about 200 yards and come to a junction, I killed the engine. Again we heard the sound of another outboard motor, this time distinctly louder. Billy was moving his head from side to side to locate the direction. ‘To the left,’ he said, and took out his gun.
I restarted the engine and pushed over the tiller, and we moved to the left and towards the house in the distance.There was a bend ahead and I moved to the inside curve, still travelling slowly because I wanted to keep quiet. Over the sound of our own engine I heard the noise of another.
‘There he is,’ said Billy, and I saw the dory coming towards us on the other side of the canal on the outside of the bend. I twisted the throttle and the boat bucked at the sudden application of power. Then we were on to him and Billy was shooting, but so was Robinson. Even as Billy fired, a bullet impacted inboard close to my hand and again there was the hiss of escaping air. Robinson was too damn good with his shooting; he had fired but two shots and had hit us both times, and although I had told Billy the inflatable was compartmented Robinson had punctured two air chambers out of the five.
Then he was past us and I slammed over the tiller, already feeling the difference in the behaviour of the boat; she was slow to come about and not as easily controlled. But Billy shouted, ‘He’s stopped. I hit his engine.’
I twisted and looked back. The dory was drifting into the bank and, as it touched, Robinson leapt ashore and began to run. He paused and snapped one shot at us before disappearing behind one of the heaps of grey limestone rubble, the spoil left from the dredging of the canal.
‘Let’s get after him,’ urged Billy.
I needed no urging. Already I was heading for the bank and standing, ready to jump. Our feet hit the ground simultaneously, and Billy said, ‘We’ll tackle him from two sides.’ He gestured with his pistol. ‘You go that way and keep your head down.’ He ran in the other direction.
I ran to the nearest heap of limestone and dropped flat before peering around it cautiously. There was no sign of Robinson. From behind I heard the sound of engines so I looked back to see the Customs launch coming up the canal, fairly boiling along at top speed. Deane must have heard the shots and decided to come in.
I ignored it and turned again to look for Robinson. We were quite close to the house and there were now two men on the roof, and one of them was pointing at something. I followed the direction of his arm, got to my feet, and began to run. Skidding around another heap of rubble I came across Robinson about ten yards away. He had his back to me, and beyond him I saw Billy come into sight.
I was late in the tackle. Before I could get to him Robinson fired and Billy dropped in his tracks. But then I was on to him and I had no mercy. His pistol went flying and it took Deane and two of his men to prise my hands from Robinson’s neck.
Deane hauled me to my feet and pushed me away, standing between me and Robinson. ‘That’s enough!’ he said curtly.
I heard a car door slam and saw Perigord walking over from a police car near the house. I regained my breath, and said, ‘Then get the bastard out of my sight before I kill him.’ I turned and walked towards Billy.
He was sitting up, his hand to his head, and when he took it away it was red with blood. ‘He creased me!’ he said blankly. ‘Jesus, but it hurts!’ There was an unfocused look to his eyes, a sign of concussion. I stooped, picked up his gun, and walked to the water’s edge and tossed it into the canal. Then I went back and helped him to his feet.
‘You’re lucky you’re not dead,’ I said. ‘Be glad it hurts; it means you’ll live.’
Already he was looking better. He glanced across at Deane and saw Robinson still prostrate on the ground. ‘Well, we’ve got him.’
‘Yes,’ I said shortly. Deane would not now need any excuse for holding Robinson. Any man who popped off a gun was automatically his prey — including Billy. Still, Deane had not seen Billy shoot, so, as we walked towards him, I said, ‘I ditched your gun in the canal.’
‘Thanks.’
Robinson sat up and Deane was addressing him in fast, fluent Spanish. Among the spate of words I heard the name Perez, repeated several times. Robinson shook his head and replied in Spanish, and then switched into English, with the same plummy accent I had come to know in Texas. ‘I’m a soldier of the revolution,’ he said pompously. ‘And now a prisoner of war. I will answer no questions.’ He got to his feet.
‘Prisoner of war?’ said Billy unbelievingly. ‘The guy’s nuts!’
‘He’s a bloody murderer,’ I said.
‘But that’s for a court to decide, Mr Mangan,’ said Perigord.
Deane took out handcuffs and then paused, looking at Billy expressionlessly. ‘Search this man,’ he said.
Billy grinned widely as Perigord’s hands expertly patted his body. ‘What gun?’ he said. ‘I took your advice. It was good.’
It was then that Robinson made his break. He thumped the nearest Customs officer in the gut, sending him to the ground writhing and retching, and took off, running towards the house. He took us all by surprise. Deane dropped the handcuffs and broke into a run, with me at his heels.
The builders at the house had stopped work and were now all on the roof, a good vantage point to view the morning’s unexpected entertainment. The sole exception was the driver of a truck which had just arrived. He had got out, leaving the door open and the engine idling, and was calling to the men on the roof. Robinson clouted him in passing and he staggered back to collide with Deane and they both went down in a tangle of arms and legs.