Queen Victoria's Revenge by Harry Harrison Page A

scotch secured upside down to the wall. A windowed device on the neck measured out an infinitesimal amount of drink into each glass. The colonel paid, their drinks vanished in a single small gulp, then they were back on the road again.
    â€œWe shall stroll down to the harbor there. Look carefully at everyone.”
    A jetty closed off one side of the circular harbor and two fishing boats were tied up to it. The sun shone brightly on this very pleasant scene, tiny cottages crouched along the shore, nets dried on poles, a small shop displayed rope and tackle in its window. The colonel inclined his head in that direction.
    â€œIn this store, eyes open.”
    There were big men there in rubber boots and heavy sweaters; they looked up in interest when they entered. Tony was sure he had never seen them before. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” the man behind the wooden counter asked. Also a stranger. The colonel looked around quickly at the wrenches, cans of grease and red lead—then saw a rack of paperback books.
    â€œYes, something to read.” He flipped through them unseeingly, eyes on Tony, who gave his head a quick shake. The colonel threw a small booklet on the counter, it was nearest to hand. “I’ll take this.”
    â€œThat’ll be twenty-five pence.”
    Colonel Juarez-Sedoño passed it to Tony while he dug in his pocket for silver. There was a dim and watery seascape on the front cover of the booklet, fishing boats emerging from a cove, with the title below. “THE FLEET and other poems” by Ian A. Brown. The colonel was having difficulty fishing out small change and Tony flipped the pages. “A la Cart” sounded like a nice title for a poem:
    Herring swimming in Loch Fyne
    feed on plankton in the brine;
    those seen on the surface frying
    soon inside a net are lying;
    then may this simple fish
    fried in meal—a tasty dish!
    A very nice poem that set Tony’s salivary glands to secreting and brought an answering mutter of interest from his stomach. It had been a long time since he had eaten. The colonel tugged at his arm.
    â€œAlong the shore, look at the men on the boats.”
    They ambled over to the water’s edge, while in the background simple Cuban musicians strolled as well, violin cases hanging heavy from their hands. A man was gutting a large fish on the deck of the nearest boat, throwing the waste parts into the water where gulls screamed and fought for the tidbits. He looked up when they came close and Tony recognized the driver of the Rolls-Royce, the man who had helped Angus Macpherson take the money. Tony turned away and spoke softly:
    â€œThat’s one of them, the driver of the car.”
    The colonel smiled broadly and took the gun from his pocket.
    â€œCome here, you,” he ordered.
    The sailor responded instantly by hurling his knife at the colonel.

EIGHT
    For all his skill as a torturer, the colonel was not much of a combat specialist. He neither fired his gun nor attempted to dodge, but simply shrieked shrilly as the knife lodged in his thigh, flinging his arms wide and falling backward, sending the gun flying across the cobbles. The shrieking cut off as he crashed to the ground, his eyes rolling up so only the whites showed, his mouth lolling open. The knife fell from his leg with the impact and a small splotch of blood stained the spot where it had gone in. His jacket had fallen open, and there, projecting from the inner pocket, was the wallet with the skyjacked bills peeping greenly from it.
    There would never be another chance like this—and Tony took it. The fish cleaner had vanished from the boat while startled Cubans were still fumbling with violin case closures. Now! Grabbing the wallet from the colonel’s pocket, Tony raced across the cobbles and into an alleyway next to the store. There was a path here that rose sharply up the hillside. He thrust the wallet into his pocket and scrabbled up it, almost on all