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Favaro slipped up behind him, slid his arm around the man’s chest, and eased the barrel of his Colt Cobra into his right nostril. “Three seconds,” he whispered. “Then I have an awful accident.”
“Do it,” rasped Livingstone.
Fourteen hands went upward and stayed there. The three police constables went around collecting the seven handguns.
“Frisk,” said McCready. The police sergeants frisked each Cuban. Two knives in calf-sheaths were discovered.
“Search the house,” said McCready.
The seven Cubans were lined up, facing the sitting-room wall, hands on top of heads. Livingstone sat in his club chair, covered by Favaro. The SAS men stayed on the stairs in case of an attempt at mass breakout. There was none. The five local police officers searched the house.
They discovered a variety of extra weapons, a large sum of American dollars, further sums of Barclayan pounds, and a powerful short-wave radio with encrypter.
“Mr. Livingstone,” said McCready, “I could ask Mr. Jones to charge your associates with a variety of offenses under British law—false passports, illegal entry, carrying of unlicensed guns—it’s a long list. Instead, I am going to expel them all as undesirable aliens. Now—within the hour. You may, if you wish, stay on here alone. You are, after all, a Barclayan by birth. But you would still be open to charges of aiding and abetting, and frankly you might feel safer back where you belong, on Cuba.”
“I’ll second that,” growled Reverend Drake.
Livingstone nodded.
In single file, the Cubans were marched out to the second of the two vans waiting in the courtyard. Only one tried violence. Attempting to run, he was blocked by a local constable and threw the officer to the ground.
Inspector Jones acted with remarkable speed. He produced from his belt the short holly-wood truncheon known to generations of British policeman as “the holly.” There was a
loud pok as the timber bounced off the Cuban’s head. The man sank to his knees, feeling quite unwell.
“Don’t do that,” Chief Inspector Jones advised him.
The Cubans and Horatio Livingstone sat on the floor of the van, hands on heads, while Sergeant Newson leaned over from the front seat, covering them with his machine pistol. The cavalcade formed up again and trundled slowly out of Shantytown to the fishing quay in Port Plaisance. McCready kept the pace slow so that hundreds of Barclayans could see what was going on.
At the fishing quay, the Gulf Lady waited, her engine idling. Behind her, she towed a garbage scow newly fitted with two pairs of oars.
“Mr. Dobbs,” said McCready, “please tow these gentleman as far as the start of Cuban territorial waters, or until a Cuban patrol boat starts to cruise in your direction. Then cast them loose. They can be pulled home by their fellow countrymen, or row home with the onshore breeze.”
Jimmy Dobbs looked askance at the Cubans. There were seven of them, plus Livingstone.
“Lieutenant Haverstock here will accompany you,” said McCready. “He will, of course, be armed.”
Sergeant Sinclair gave Haverstock the Colt Cobra that the Reverend Drake had declined to use. Haverstock stepped onto the Gulf Lady and took position sitting on the cabin roof, facing aft.
“Don’t worry, old boy,” he said to Dobbs. “If one of them moves, I’ll just blow his nuts off.”
“Mr. Livingstone,” said McCready, looking down at the eight men in the scow, “one last thing. When you reach Cuba, you may tell Señor Castro that taking over the Barclays through a stooge candidate in the elections, and then perhaps annexing the islands to Cuba, or turning them into an international revolutionary training camp, was a wonderful idea. But you might also tell him that it ain’t going to work. Not now, not ever. He’ll have to salvage his political career some other way. Good-bye, Mr. Livingstone. Don’t come back.”
More than a thousand Barclayans thronged the quay as the Gulf Lady turned away from the jetty and headed for the open sea.
“One more chore, I believe, gentlemen,” said McCready, and strode back down the jetty toward the Jaguar, his gleaming white uniform cutting a swath through the crowd of onlookers.
The wrought-iron gates to the estate of Marcus Johnson were locked. Newson and Sinclair stepped out of the side door of their van and went straight over the wall without touching the top. Minutes later, from inside the estate, there came a soft thunk, as of the edge of a hard hand coming into contact with the human frame. The electric motor hummed, and the gates swung open.
Inside, and to the right, was a small hut with a control panel and telephone. Slumped on the floor was a man in bright beach shirt, his dark glasses crushed on the floor beside him. He was thrown into the last van with the two police sergeants. Newson and Sinclair slipped away across the lawns and were lost to view among the bushes.
Marcus Johnson was descending the tiled staircase toward the open-plan reception area when McCready strode in. He was pulling a silk bathrobe around himself.
“May I ask what the hell this means?” he demanded.
“Certainly,” said McCready. “Please read this.”
Johnson handed the warrant back.
