LITMIR.BIZ

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laugh with the obvious. “Do you mean we might find more than one fat, drugged Englishman hiding in a truck?”

      Then a deep thinker sitting next to Yolanda, scratched his head and asked a question in Dutch, which the captain translated before answering. “He wants to know— if LeClarc is in a truck, where’s Motsom?”

      Billy Motsom was still on the phone. He had changed bars for fear of attracting too much attention, and was now in the one under the Heineken sign. A few of the regulars had managed to keep their daily vigil—nuclear warfare might have stopped them if close enough—but the place was much quieter than normal, and the landlord would have assumed one of his competitor’s was having a fire sale had he not known of the uproar at the port over a missing passenger.

      Motsom stood by the payphone in one corner as he watched the landlord expertly slice the foam off the top of a dozen glasses with a wooden spatula. Why do they do that? he pondered, as he listened to a busy signal for the tenth time. Putting the phone down, he retrieved his florin and tried his cellphone again. The “low battery” signal beeped, so he slammed it shut and went back to the payphone. “It’s me. I’ve been calling for ages. What’s happening?”

      He listened intently for a second, then exploded, “I don’t care how fuckin’ rough it is. Get a bloody boat even if you’ve got to buy one.” He paused long enough for a response. “No, I don’t know what they cost. And I still need a car. The cops are swarming all over mine. I nearly ran into a bloody ambush. Hang on,” he said, stuffing more coins into the slot. “I don’t know how they got onto me,” he continued, “unless that clown King has blabbed—thank God he doesn’t know which truck we’re using or we’d really be in the shit…”

      The barman interrupted nosily, enquiring if he needed more coins. Waving him away, he continued, “Yeah, he knows what we’re doing, ’course he knows. He worked it out. He ain’t that stupid. Anyway, forget King, we’ve got to get LeClarc if he’s still alive, and I’ve got to get away from here before they find the truck and pin it on me.”

      The meeting in the fortress, less than a quarter of a mile away, was dissolving in a degree of chaos with search leaders showing a certain amount of cronyism as they began constituting teams in an adult form of “One for me—one for you.” Bliss and Yolanda fought their way through a dark passage thronged with twenty or more Dutchmen all yakking at the same time, and emerged into the fresh air. Bliss looked up at the sky with surprise, he’d lost track of time and had not expected daylight.

      “Christ,” he said, in a sudden panic. “The super’s arriving at six. I nearly forgot. I’ll have to get going, I’ve no idea how to get there.” He turned to Yolanda, “Where is it again, Ski-pole?”

      “It’s shkeepol. But don’t worry, I’ll take you; we’ve got plenty of time.”

      He checked his watch. “I’d like to talk to King again. I’m sure he knows a lot more than he’s letting on.”

      “Okey dokey Dave,” she said. “Let’s go.”

      “Hello Nosmo. Want a ciggy or a coffee,” he started cheerily as he entered the bare cell a few minutes later.

      “I still haven’t got a bloody lawyer,” moaned King.

      Bliss plunked himself informally on the end of the slatted wooden bench like he was taking a break. “I’ll ask the captain again, but the trouble is I’m only a visitor just like you.”

      “Yeah well you ain’t stuck in jail, are you.”

      “True, Nosmo. But you wouldn’t be, if you told me what was happening.”

      “Are you offering me some sort of deal? Turn Queen’s evidence as we used to say. Do you still say that, Dave?” He sneered.

      “No. We call it grassing or bubbling now.”

      “I know. The trouble is I ain’t got anything to offer. I’ve told you … I ain’t done nothing, and I don’t know nothing.”

      “No one thinks they’re bad, Nosmo; you know that,” said Bliss, letting his eyes wander around the spacious cell. The high stone walls had been whitewashed recently he thought, but graffiti had spread like poison ivy as each temporary occupant had sought to immortalize his stay with a few hatefully inscribed monosyllables beginning with “F” or “C” on the nearest available space. The expanse of blank wall beyond arms reach from the bunk was relatively unscathed, although some joker had written, “Do not write on this wall,” along the bottom.

      “See that window?” said Bliss pointing to a heavily barred slot.

      “Yeah.”

      “Unless you start talking, that’s all the daylight you’re going to see for a long time.”

      “And how are they going to keep me Dave? Claim they found a condom of cocaine up my bum?” he scoffed. “They haven’t got any evidence—you know that. And since when is it a crime to try to save a bloke’s life?”

      “It ain’t Nosmo. But you weren’t trying to save anyone’s life. The way it looks to them is that you chucked the guy overboard to steal his car. Is that what happened?”

      “You know it ain’t Dave. I didn’t chuck anybody overboard. And I didn’t steal a car neither.”

      “Well you’ll have to try telling the judge that, but the evidence looks pretty good from where I’m standing.”

      “You’re sitting Dave, not standing,” he said, sarcastically. “Anyway I’ve told you. I’m not saying anything without a lawyer, and I won’t be saying anything with a lawyer either.”

      Bliss changed tack. “What about your missus, Nosmo. Do you want me to call…”

      “I ain’t got a bloody missus, so don’t waste your breath.”

      The cynicism of a disenchanted romantic empathized Bliss momentarily, asking, “Divorced?”

      “Sort of. She pissed off years ago. I s’pose we’re still legally married but I ain’t seen her in ages.”

      “Kids?”

      “Couple. Grown up. One’s nineteen, the other’s twenty-one. They’ve got their lives sorted out. No point bothering ’em. There’s nothing they can do anyway.”

      “Is there anyone …”

      Yolanda’s voice interrupted, “Dave can I talk to you please?”

      She was standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright light in the corridor.

      “Lucky old Dave,” said King under his breath.

      “I’ll be back. Don’t go away Nosmo,” he said, slipping out of the cell and pulling the huge wooden door closed behind him.

      “They’ve found the truck,” said Yolanda, impatience overcoming discretion.

      King, with an ear to the door, muttered, “Oh shit.”

      Back at the port, just three minutes later, Bliss and Yolanda had no difficulty in finding the relevant truck. It was swarming with uniforms. Captain Jahnssen, in darkest blue with a smattering of gold stars, detached himself from the melee as they approached.

      “Found it,” he beamed, pointing to a red and white truck with a matching forty-foot container on its back. “In here somewhere.”

      They caught up to him, “How do you know?”

      He stopped, now alongside the juggernaut. “One of the custom’s dogs smelled the air vent. Here,” he said, pulling Bliss under the truck, shooing away a cluster of inquisitive officers.

      “Look,” he said, shining a flashlight upwards to a tea-plate sized wire grating. “This is where the air comes out.”

      “Where’s the entry?” enquired Bliss, escaping from underneath the monster and carefully examining the

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